Clara, the woman who came twice a week to clean, stood at the counter with her sleeves rolled up and flour dusting her hair. She was young, maybe late twenties, usually quiet and efficient, someone I barely noticed beyond polite greetings. But this version of her was different. Relaxed. Alive.
Seated on tall stools were my children. Tomaso was elbow deep in sticky dough. Luca was proudly shaping something unrecognizable. Bianca laughed so hard she snorted, her cheeks streaked with flour.
They were calm. Happy. My knees weakened. This had to be a hallucination brought on by stress. Clara noticed me and froze, eyes wide. She lifted her hand to her mouth, smearing flour across her cheek.
“Oh. Mr. Bellini. I did not expect you home yet. I am so sorry.”
“Papa.” Bianca leapt down with reckless confidence and barreled into my legs, leaving handprints on my tailored trousers. “We are making cookies.”
Luca held up a misshapen lump. “It is a dragon.”
Tomaso waved without looking up. I stood there, stunned, stroking Bianca’s hair while my mind struggled to catch up.
“I can explain,” Clara said quickly. “The caregiver left earlier. The children were alone and very upset.”