Chapter 22 - The Second Grave Visit
On the tenth anniversary of Eleanor’s death, I took Nora to cemetery alone.
No Dante at first.
Fog again.
Not as heavy.
White flowers.
Same stone.
ELEANOR WHITFIELD. BELOVED MOTHER.
Nora was six.
“Is this Grandma Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“She knew Daddy’s mom?”
“Yes.”
“Were they friends?”
“Very.”
“Did they get in trouble?”
I smiled.
“Something like that.”
She placed flowers.
Then noticed Moretti plot three rows away.
“Is Grandma Isabella there?”
“Yes.”
We walked.
Two grandmothers who never met their granddaughter.
One through me.
One through Dante.
Nora placed half the bouquet at Isabella’s grave.
“I’m sharing.”
I laughed.
“Good.”
Then Dante appeared at gate carrying coffee.
“You followed us.”
“You left coffee.”
“Excuse.”
“Yes.”
We sat on bench.
Same cemetery where Bianca slapped me.
Where my bracelet broke.
Where Dante appeared.
Six years earlier, that place felt like trap.
Now it was simply where dead people rested.
That transformation mattered.
Nora ran between us.
“Dad, Mom says Grandma Eleanor lied.”
Dante almost choked.
I sighed.
“I said she hid things.”
“Same.”
Dante said:
“Sometimes people hide truth because scared.”
“Is that bad?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did she still love Mom?”
“Yes.”
May you like
“Okay.”
She accepted complexity faster than most courts.
