Chapter 6 - Thirteen Days
The final thirteen days of Elise’s employment were the longest thirteen days of my life.
Nothing happened.
Everything happened.
I learned to braid badly.
Maisie told me I was hurting the doll.
Rosie informed me cereal could not be served in a blue bowl on Tuesdays.
I learned the difference between a real nightmare and a request to delay bedtime.
I learned that grief did not make children fragile.
Adults did that when we treated every tear like damage.
Elise watched me improve without praising me like an idiot.
That helped.
On day eleven, she left me alone with bath time.
On day nine, I handled a full meltdown because Rosie could not find Alessandra’s old scarf.
On day seven, we found it.
I almost hid it.
The perfume was gone.
But it still felt like my wife.
Then I handed it to Rosie.
She slept with it wrapped around her stuffed rabbit.
Nothing broke.
That was the lesson.
On day six, investigators found evidence that Matteo had not been alone in the cover-up after Alessandra’s crash.
A police liaison had suppressed the bumper paint report.
Paid by one of our shell companies.
The authorization bore my digital signature.
It was fake.
Again, my name had been used as a weapon.
I called Rocco.
“I want every authorization system changed.”
“Already working on it.”
“Dual approval.”
“Yes.”
“Outside audit.”
He paused.
“That will expose things.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
He laughed softly.
“That is new.”
I understood.
The old Dante treated certainty like masculinity.
The new version was learning uncertainty did not kill anyone.
Usually.
On day five, Nico reported a strange vehicle circling the estate.
Old instincts returned instantly.
Lockdown.
Guards.
Weapons.
Then I stopped.
“Run the plate.”
He did.
Local news photographer.
I almost laughed.
Not threat.
Curiosity.
My body did not know the difference yet.
That night, Elise found me in the kitchen.
“You look angry.”
“I’m tired of being ready for something to happen.”
She poured tea.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“You could stop some of it.”
“How?”
“Sell the mansion.”
I stared.
She shrugged.
“You hate it.”
“I do not.”
“You hate every hallway.”
“That is different.”
“You sleep in a guest room because the master reminds you of Alessandra.”
I said nothing.
“The girls avoid the west stairs because the portrait wall scares them.”
I knew.
“Elise.”
“Keep the paintings you love. Sell the mausoleum.”
“Mausoleum?”
“Very expensive mausoleum.”
I laughed.
She smiled.
The idea stayed.
On day four, I called a real-estate attorney.
Not an agent yet.
Just a question.
What would selling require?
On day three, I took the twins to Harbor House.
Elise did not come.
That was intentional.
I wanted them to see the place Alessandra had chosen without making Elise the bridge every time.
Dr. Morris showed us the music room.
Maisie found a drum.
Rosie found paint.
Within six minutes, both were covered in something washable.
I sat on the floor.
Another father sat beside me.
His wife had died of leukemia.
We talked for twenty minutes before he asked what I did.
“Construction,” I said.
Technically true.
I liked being nobody.
On day two, Elise handed me the household transition binder.
Schedules.
Doctors.
Foods.
Sleep triggers.
Emergency contacts.
There was a final section.
Things Alessandra Did.
I could not open it.
Elise saw.
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Whenever.”
I put it in my desk.
Choice.
On the final morning, the girls ate pancakes.
Elise wore jeans and a cream sweater instead of uniform.
That made everything feel real.
Rosie asked, “You go home?”
Elise nodded.
“My apartment.”
“You come back?”
Elise looked at me.
I looked at her.
“If Daddy invites me.”
Maisie turned to me.
“Invite.”
Children simplify adult terror beautifully.
“Elise is invited.”
“When?”
I looked at Elise.
She smiled.
“Saturday?”
“Saturday.”
The twins accepted this immediately.
I did not.
After breakfast, Elise carried her suitcase to the front hall.
Nico offered to take it.
She refused.
Of course.
I walked her to the door.
No guards close.
No audience.
“You’re not my employee anymore,” I said.
She checked her watch.
“Technically since 9:00.”
It was 9:07.
“Dinner.”
She laughed.
“That is your transition?”
“Yes.”
“Seven minutes?”
“I waited thirteen days.”
“Barely.”
“Dinner.”
She looked at me.
Not afraid.
Not obligated.
Just deciding.
“Yes.”
The relief was embarrassing.
“Tonight?”
“No.”
My face must have changed.
She laughed.
“Saturday.”
“But you’re seeing the girls Saturday.”
“I can multitask.”
“Dangerous.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She reached for the doorknob.
Then stopped.
“Dante.”
“Yes?”
“You did good.”
“With what?”
“The gloves.”
I stared.
“That dance was humiliating.”
“The girls loved it.”
“So did Alessandra.”
The name did not stab the same way.
Still hurt.
But differently.
“Thank you,” I said.
Elise opened the door.
Then turned back.
“I think she would have liked that you finally looked ridiculous.”
I laughed.
She left.
I stood in the doorway after her car disappeared.
For the first time since Alessandra died, someone leaving did not feel like abandonment.
It felt like proof she could come back because she wanted to.
That afternoon, before Elise left for her apartment, she found the twins sitting on the front steps with me.
Maisie was holding a dead leaf and explaining that it was “too crunchy to be sad.”
Rosie had decided the stone lion beside the steps needed a pink ribbon.
Elise sat beside us.
No uniform.
No clipboard.
No role except herself.
For several minutes, nobody said anything important.
Then Maisie leaned against my arm and asked, “Daddy, when Elise goes home, do you get lonely?”
I almost gave the easy answer.
Adults do that with children. We protect them from truths they already understand.
Instead, I said, “Sometimes.”
Maisie nodded as if this confirmed something.
“Me too.”
Rosie looked at Elise.
“Do you get lonely?”
“Sometimes.”
Then Rosie said, “We can all be lonely and still come back.”
The sentence silenced every adult on the steps.
Elise looked at me.
I looked at the girls.
Four years old, and already better at understanding separation than I had been at forty.
That night, after they were asleep, I finally opened the last section of Elise’s transition binder.
Things Alessandra Did.
It was not a list of instructions.
It was stories.
She danced while making pancakes.
She warmed towels.
She made up songs when the twins were sick.
She called thunder “the sky moving furniture.”
Halfway down the second page, I had to stop reading.
Then I kept going.
May you like
For the first time, remembering Alessandra did not feel like falling backward.
It felt like bringing something useful forward.
