Chapter 1 A Lonely Birthday

When my husband finally said “I’m sorry,” it was too late.

On my birthday, he chose to get tangled up in a car with his old flame—their so-called Red Rose.

The day I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, he snapped, “Don’t use these tricks to distract from what matters.”

At a family banquet, our son announced in front of everyone that he’d drawn a picture of his father and the mistress—and that he wished she were his mom.

And when I finally broke my silence and walked out of their lives for good—

He showed up with that worn-out ring and begged me to come back.

I said only this:

“If I could turn back time, I would have left you at the very beginning.”

……

……

The autumn rain had been falling since dusk — soft, indifferent, the kind that doesn't bother announcing itself. I stood at the end of the drive in my coat, a black garbage bag hanging from one hand, and stared at the Maserati idling in the shadow of the elm trees.

The car was rocking. Gently. Rhythmically.

The bag slipped from my fingers and knocked against my shin. The sound cut through the wet silence like a slap. The passenger window was fogged over, but I watched the silhouette inside shift — and then Damiano turned his head and looked directly at me.

He moved fast. One arm swept sideways, shielding the woman beside him from view. He pushed open the door, stepped into the rain — jacket half-buttoned, tie loosened — and a cigarette appeared between his fingers with the ease of a man who had rehearsed this exit before. He lit it, exhaled, and let the smoke drift into my face.

"Norma." His voice was exactly as I knew it — low, measured, the voice of a man who had never needed to raise it. "Go back inside. Don't make this difficult for me."

I didn't move.

I thought about a dinner party eight years ago, his mother's dining room, a table full of Ferretti relatives who had not wanted me there and made very sure I knew it. I remembered the precise moment Damiano stepped between me and his aunt, shoulders squared, voice carrying to every corner of the room: "She's my wife. Nobody touches her." I had believed, in that moment, that I was the luckiest woman alive.

The smoke reached my eyes. I blinked.

"I heard you," I said.

He came home two hours later. I was at the kitchen counter — not waiting, just not bothering to go anywhere else. He dropped his keys on the marble and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Get me some water. My head is killing me."

I poured honey into warm water and set the glass in front of him without a word. He looked at me the way he always did — as though I were a fixture he hadn't noticed in a while.

"You're not going to say anything?" he said.

"What would you like me to say, Damiano?"

He pulled me toward him by the wrist, thumb tracing slow circles on the inside of my arm. "It was business. Client entertainment. She means nothing." He paused. "You used to understand these things."

"I used to be a lot of things."

"Don't start." He set the glass down. "You're going to make this into something it isn't."

"Today is my birthday," I said.

He was quiet for a beat too long. "I know."

"You promised to be home for dinner."

"Something came up."

I looked at him — this man I had spent the afternoon cooking for, whose favourite Sicilian recipes I had prepared and whose plate was still set at the table with a folded napkin he would never unfold. The food had gone into the outdoor bin an hour ago.

"I'm not going to beg you," I said. "I want you to understand that clearly. If you want out of this marriage, I will let you go. I am not the kind of woman who holds on to something that doesn't want to be held."

He laughed — a short, humourless sound. He reached into his jacket and placed a cheque on the counter between us. Five figures. His angular signature at the bottom.

"Your mother called," he said. "She mentioned you want the apartment on the west side. I'll have it transferred to your name tomorrow."

"I never asked for that apartment."

"Norma." His tone shifted into something practiced — not unkind, simply final. "Your family placed you here to keep things smooth. I've been generous. Don't complicate it by pretending you're above all of that."

I stared at the cheque. Then at his face. Then at the dinner table in the next room, candlelight long since guttered out.

"I never asked your family for a single thing," I said quietly. "Not once in eight years. I asked you — only you — to come home on my birthday."

"And I'm here, aren't I?"

"It's almost midnight, Damiano."

He didn't answer. He picked up his water and walked toward the stairs. I listened to his footsteps until they faded and the house went very still.

I sat down at the kitchen table alone. The wax from the candles had hardened into a ring on the tablecloth.

Happy birthday to me.