Chapter 17 - WHAT WEDDING?
Livia remembered the line.
“What wedding?”
Apparently children preserve dramatic dialogue better than adults want.
She asked during homework:
“Did wedding stop because me?”
“No.”
“Because hair?”
“Because Bianca chose to hurt you and because I learned other things that meant marrying her would not be safe for our family.”
“But if no me?”
There.
“If you did not exist, my life would be different. But you did not cause Bianca’s choices.”
“Did I ruin?”
“No.”
“Bianca said hair ruin.”
“I know.”
“Her wrong?”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Did you want wedding?”
I took time.
“Yes.”
“Then sad?”
“Yes.”
She looked surprised.
Children think good decisions remove grief.
“I was sad the relationship was not what I thought.”
“Do you miss dress?”
“No.”
“Cake?”
“A little.”
She laughed.
Good.
Then school assignment did not require trauma.
She drew Elena and me from an old wedding photograph.
That was her family wedding.
Bianca did not need to appear.
Then I showed her a photograph of my wedding to Elena.
Livia touched her mother’s hair.
“Like mine.”
“Yes.”
“Bianca mad.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“Can I look like Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Can I look like me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Identity solved for afternoon.
Then I considered dating.
Terrifying.
Not because every woman was Bianca.
Because I no longer trusted my judgment.
Dr. Cole said that was my issue, not Livia’s burden.
I went to dinner with someone eventually.
One dinner.
No introduction to Livia.
No family estate.
No press.
Nothing came of it.
Good.
Then another person months later.
Still no rush.
I learned romantic privacy without secrecy.
If a relationship became serious, household boundaries would be written before cohabitation.
Sounds unromantic.
Excellent.
Then Bianca’s no-contact period expired legally.
Could she petition for contact?
As former fiancée with no parental status, practically little basis.
She did not.
Good.
Her probation completed.
Convictions remained under applicable law.
No dramatic expungement.
Then she sold her Moretti House shares to her brother.
Moved to Chicago.
Publicly worked in luxury residential design.
Life continued.
No poverty.
No revenge.
Then one final Bellaforte trust issue.
Elena had allowed Livia, at age ten, to begin attending annual beneficiary education sessions.
She was six.
Years away.
Sterling asked whether we wanted to delay because of trauma.
I said no automatic delay.
At ten, evaluate.
Do not make money a forbidden subject.
Information had protected us once I finally understood it.
Then Livia asked:
“Do I own house?”
“Not exactly.”
“Trust owns?”
“Yes.”
“Trust person?”
“No.”
“Still boring.”
I laughed.
Then:
“Can trust tell me haircut?”
“No.”
“Good trust.”
Fair.
Then Rosalie moved fully into her apartment but worked regular days at Bellaforte.
No sleep-in unless requested.
Livia sometimes stayed with my sister? I did not have named sister. Use Uncle Matteo visits. Fine.
The house adjusted.
No one’s love measured by proximity.
Then one evening I found the engagement ring.
It had been collected from the dressing-room floor and placed in evidence, later returned.
I had never looked at it.
I asked Julian what to do.
“Legally yours unless settlement says otherwise.”
It did.
The ring was mine.
I sold it.
Not dramatically.
Proceeds covered part of wedding vendor losses and my legal fees.
No charity symbolism.
No diamond in ocean.
Money returned to being money.
Then Livia asked where ring went.
“Sold.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t need it.”
“Can buy pony?”
“No.”
“Bad sale.”
Definitely.
May you like
The story was becoming ordinary enough for pony arguments.
That was progress.
