My Deranged Mafia Marriage Chapter 09

My Deranged Mafia Marriage Chapter 09

Spring comes slowly in this new city. 

The flowers on the balcony bloomed, and every morning my daughter would run out to count how 

many there were. I braided her hair; she complained I did it too tight, unbraided it herself, and then ran off to preschool with messy, lopsided braids. 

That’s how the days went. 

Not painful, but not overly sweet. Just normal. 

That afternoon, I went to pick her up from preschool. 

The teacher said she’d drawn a picture in art class of three people. I asked her who they were, and she pointed. “Mommy, me, and a big bear.” 

“Why a big bear?” 

“Because he looks like he really wants to give me a hug.” 

I didn’t ask again. 

Back home, I was cooking while she watched cartoons 

in the living room. 

The doorbell rang. 

I looked through the peephole; it was a courier holding 

a long, rectangular box. 

No sender’s name. 

I hesitated, but opened the door. 

Signed. Opened. 

Inside was a framed painting. 

It was a little girl with lopsided braids, clutching a teddy bear. The background was a blur of colors, like 

the lights of a playground. 

In the bottom right corner, a line was written in pencil: 

“Her smile looks just like yours.” 

I leaned the painting against the wall and stood there 

for a while. 

My daughter ran over. “Mommy, what’s this?” 

“A gift from someone I don’t know.” 

“It’s pretty!” She crouched down to stare at it. “Did this 

person paint me?” 

“Maybe.” 

“How did he know what I look like?” 

I patted her head. “I don’t know. Go wash your hands; 

it’s time to eat.” 

That night, after she fell asleep, I sat on the balcony. 

My phone lit up. 

An unknown number. A text. 

[The painting wasn’t meant to disturb you. I just felt 

you should see it.] 

I didn’t reply. 

Ten minutes later, another one. 

[I opened a small repair shop over here. I’ve gotten 

pretty good at fixing crutches. If your bike ever breaks, you can come find me. Though, of course, you won’t.] 

I still didn’t reply. 

The third text came half an hour later. 

[Goodnight, Sonia.] 

I turned off the phone and went to bed. 

The next morning, while taking my daughter to school, 

I stood at the breakfast stall on the corner for a 

moment. 

The cart owner asked me, “Ma’am, what would you 

like?” 

I said, “A bowl of noodles.” 

“Spicy?” 

“Yes.” 

I took my noodles and sat on a roadside bench. 

The sun was nice. 

The noodles were hot. 

I ate slowly, watching the people come and go. 

Someone crossed the street opposite me, not seeing 

me, or perhaps pretending not to. 

A crutch tapped against the stone pavement, making a 

dull thud. 

I didn’t look up. 

The footsteps were slow and steady, moving further 

and further away. 

I finished my noodles and returned the bowl to the 

owner. 

“Was it good?” he asked. 

“It was okay.” 

“Will you be back tomorrow?” 

“Maybe.” 

I walked toward the preschool. 

The wind blew fallen leaves to my feet, then blew them 

away. 

That’s how life is. 

Some people come, some people go. 

Some wounds scar over, and some things you never 

want to mention again. 

But the sun still rises. 

The second day, the third day, the fourth day. 

I didn’t go back to that street for noodles. 

It wasn’t that I was deliberately avoiding it. 

Life just got busy. 

There was a parent–teacher conference, a project deadline at work, and the soil in that balcony pot 

needed changing. 

I liked it this way. 

Busy, but not frantic. 

Quiet, but not lonely. 

One night, after my daughter was asleep, I opened an old box I hadn’t touched in a long time. 

Inside were some old photos. 

Lorenzo and me. 

From when we were young. 

Before he became a Don, before he learned how to lie, 

before he learned how to wear that perfect mask in 

front of me. 

In the photos, he was smiling like an idiot. 

In the photos, I was smiling like an idiot too. 

I looked at them for a while, then closed the box. 

It wasn’t that I couldn’t bear it. 

I just didn’t see the point in looking anymore. 

I put the box back in the deepest corner of the closet. 

I picked up my phone and deleted the three unreplied 

messages. 

Then I turned it off. 

And went to sleep. 

That night, I had a dream. 

I dreamed of my sixteen–year–old self, standing at the 

mouth of that alley. 

The darkness stretched inward like an open mouth. 

I didn’t dare go in, and I didn’t dare look back. 

Then someone came up from behind and draped a jacket over my shoulders. 

I thought it was Lorenzo. 

But when I turned around, no one was there. 

There was only the jacket, carrying a strange warmth 

and scent. 

I stood there in the dream for a long time. 

Finally, I took the jacket off, folded it neatly, and left it 

on the bench at the mouth of the alley. 

Then I turned and walked away. 

When I woke up, the sky was just beginning to 

brighten. 

My daughter was still sleeping. 

I got up to boil water in the kitchen. 

The kettle whistled, and steam blurred the window. 

I pushed the window open, letting the cool morning air 

rush in. 

Downstairs, the streetlights hadn’t gone out yet. 

A figure was leaning against the lamppost across the 

street, crutch tucked under his arm, head down. 

I didn’t know how long he had been standing there. 

I watched for three seconds. 

Then I pulled the curtains shut. 

The water was boiling. 

I poured a cup of hot water, held it in my hands, and 

drank it slowly. 

At seven o’clock, my daughter woke up. 

“Mommy, what are we eating today?” 

“Pancakes.” 

“With extra ham!” 

“You got it, sweetie.” 

The sizzle of the oil sounded in the kitchen. 

Sunlight squeezed through the gap in the curtains, falling onto the floor. 

I didn’t look out the window again. 

Some doors, once closed, stay closed. 

It’s not that they can’t be opened. 

It’s just that you don’t want to. 

Life goes on. 

And that’s enough.