Dad called every day.
I did not tell him.
Not fully.
“How are you?”
“Tired.”
“Need the nurse back?”
“She’s unavailable.”
“I can call another service.”
“Colin says we’re okay.”
Dad paused.
“I asked you.”
I remember that.
He asked me.
I still answered:
“We’re okay.”
Why?
Because I was twenty-nine.
Married.
A mother.
And embarrassed that I could not handle three weeks in my own house without calling my father.
Marcia had discovered exactly where pride could do her work for her.
She said:
“Giorgio already thinks Colin cannot provide.”
False.
Dad had his issues with Colin.
Providing was not one.
“He pays for everything.”
Also false.
Dad paid for some things because he liked to.
Our house was ours.
Colin had a good income.
I ran a small art advisory business before pregnancy.
We were comfortable.
But Marcia knew Colin’s resentment.
Every gift from Dad became evidence that the Bellafontes were inside the marriage.
The night nurse.
Meal service.
Theo’s crib.
The car seat.
Dad bought the crib after asking.
Marcia still said:
“A man should buy his own son’s bed.”
Colin heard.
Then stared at the crib differently.
