5: Fur is a Condiment and a Fashion Accessory
Bitch Be Cooking Up Trouble
Those who know me know how much I love animals, and I will do everything necessary to honor the responsibility I take on whenever one comes into my care. When a cat or dog lands in my life, I belong to them for life. Just as I do with every serious commitment, I design my life around the promises I’ve made. When it comes to fur babies, I do whatever it takes to make sure they’re healthy and happy.
Never mind getting graffitied with long, white dog hair on my elegant dark attire just as I’m walking out the door for a business event or an evening out. I keep a lint roller in my car just in case. Or finding the occasional strand while washing salad. Or discovering that the new pants I carefully folded on my bedroom bench have been confettied with cat fur.
I’ve overcome allergies, endured countless hours of cleaning and dusting, and made less convenient life choices to uphold those promises. I don’t plan on changing that anytime soon.
Ciao Maggie
After recounting that morning in late July of 2019, I suddenly found myself thinking about how Maggie was there with me. She had been my friend who kept me company, and now, seven years later, I was suddenly flooded with a sense of guilt. I hadn’t seen her in six years.
She didn’t know what happened to me, or why I suddenly left.
I picked up my phone and sent a WhatsApp message to her owner, Valentino. I noticed when I opened up our contacts, the last time we exchanged messages was on Christmas of 2023.
Why is this just occurring to me now? What happened in the years before? Is she even still alive?
Within minutes, my phone rings. It was Valentino.
Me: “Ciao, how are you?”
Valentino: “I’m OK. Maggie, not so much.”
Me: “What’s going on?”
Valentino: “Maggie was urinating blood the other day, and it turns out that she has a tumor in her bladder. Then, last night, she collapsed because she has a severe bladder infection and a fever, so I rushed her to the hospital last night.”
Me: “Oh no! Are you going to go see her today? Can I go see her?
Valentino: “Visiting time is at 6 p.m.; I’ll be going then.”
Me: “How about I meet you there?”
Valentino: “Yes, it’d be really great to see you.”
It was 11 a.m.; I still had my workday ahead of me, and getting to the animal hospital located in Moncalieri meant going 45 minutes out of my way. But I needed to get there. I needed to tell Maggie I was sorry, that I loved her, that I hadn’t forgotten about her, and that I was grateful for what she’d given me in this life.
The day was a mixture of extreme heat and rain. When I got there, Valentino was just rolling up in his black Mercedes. We stepped into the veterinary clinic, and Maggie was much more alert than we’d both been expecting. Her fur was supposed to be white, but being Maggie, as usual, she was completely multi-colored in dirt… and smelly.
She was walking fine and wagged her tail, barely acknowledging me. She gave me a few sniffs and started inspecting the environment. I thought for a second that maybe she didn’t remember me, but then again, she was giving her owner the same treatment. She seemed more focused on finding a way to escape.
Valentino said, “The vet told me if she’s doing just as good tomorrow, she can go home.” He seemed genuinely sure she still had some time left and talked about getting a biopsy for the tumor.
I left that interaction feeling a bit better and glad I had listened to my intuition. Two days later, Maggie died.
The Curse of Proximity
After I dropped that bag off with my letter on Emanuele’s doorstep on that hot summer morning in July of 2019, I spent the rest of the day in shock.
When I was thirteen years old, my mother had given me advice that would shape a major aspect of my love life.
It came when I was crying over Jimmy Imsland - a tall, dark, and handsome kid in my grade (at least that’s how I described him in my diary). Apparently, Matt (whatever his last name was…) had told him I had a crush on him, and rumor had it that Jimmy’s reaction was, “Ew, gross. Emilia Delena.”
After two days of non-stop tears, my mom sat me down and said. “Look, when a man tells you he doesn’t want you, he is dead to you. Yes, have your funeral, and then get it out of your system. Even if he comes back begging, don’t ever give him a second chance. He is dead.”
I took my mom quite literally and followed her advice throughout my life very faithfully. In about 3 days’ time, I was over whatever heartbreak. It was like this weird off-switch.
It always went down like this: heartbreak, cry until you can cry no more, and then it’s over. New day, new world, new me.
From that day on, any boy or man that told me that didn’t have feelings for me died in my head. My reaction to being rejected was often met with shock and disbelief on their behalf, and most of them came back to me with tears, begging for another chance. But they never, ever got one.
The funny thing was, my mother didn’t actually follow her own advice. Years later, she confessed having unrequited love that she yearned for long after it ended.
Over the next three days, I used my proven method to overcome Emanuele.
On day 2, the world was coming to an end; on day 3, I was sad and depressed, and my eyes were puffy after having produced 48 hours’ worth of tears. On the 4th morning, I woke up, got dressed, and put on my makeup. I felt reborn. A warrior ready to take on the world.
By staying indoors for four days, drowning in self-pity, I completely eliminated the chance of running into Emanuele.
Around 11 a.m., I walked across our garden and towards my little powder-blue metallic hunk of crap with my head held high. As I placed my hand on the door handle to open it, I heard a voice from the balcony above. “Emilia…”
I looked up. It was Emanuele looking down at me with a very sad look on his face.
I said, “Hi.” And proceeded to open my car door. As I put my first foot in, he said, “Can we please talk?”
Me: “I said everything that I need to say to you in the letter.”
Emanuele: “I need to tell you something.”
I sighed heavily, took my foot out of the car, and asked him, “What do you want?”
He replied, “Please come upstairs. I really need to say some things to you.”
I marched up the stairs on a mission of self-preservation, with enough emotional armor to carry me through even the most devastating of wars.
He looked like he too had been tearful. He invited me to sit down as he pulled out a chair from his kitchen table. I looked at him, almost daring him. I felt sure and unmoved as I lowered myself into the chair.
“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.
Me: “No thank you, I have to go in a minute. What can I do for you?”
Emanuele: “How are you?”
Me: “Actually, incredibly good.”
I went on to talk about some positive and exciting work updates that had transpired since we last spoke. I was enthusiastic and natural, seemingly untouched by what had happened just a few days before.
He reached for my hand, and I jolted it back. The rejection was clear.
I then asked, “How are you doing?”
He lowered his eyes and said, “Less happy than you.”
The plea in his eyes didn’t bend me. I simply responded, “Sorry to hear that. I’ve got to go. See you around.”
I walked out the door, feeling liberated, uncrushed, and like I had won.
Days went by, and I stayed firm in my position. I said “hi” when we crossed paths, but otherwise managed to keep my distance. For a little while. About ten days in, my armor started to soften.
My mother’s advice had always worked beautifully. Unfortunately, it had never been tested on a man who lived one balcony above my car.
It’s one thing to cut someone out of your life when you can avoid them. It’s another when they are continuously standing in front of you. I’ve never been particularly good at holding grudges, a trait that proved to be both beneficial and unbeneficial. This instance was an example of when it was totally inconvenient.
It took me years to realize that holding grudges and letting them go are two sides of the same coin. But that deeper understanding came much later on.
The distance between us shortened throughout August. His friends would come by, and if I happened to be in the garden—which I often was—he would walk over and introduce me.
Conversations in groups of people made it feel awkward to be at odds. I’m a highly social being, and it is not my nature to simply brush people off. I can’t pinpoint the precise moment the dissonance faded, but by the time my father showed up at my house on August 30th, Emanuele and I were once again in a situationship.
We’re Just Friends
My father arrived from Paris at about two in the morning, in a van with our eight-year-old family dog, Bianca—a huge, white, long-haired Great Pyrenees. My mother was two days behind them, flying directly into Turin.
They had officially retired in Italy.
Giuseppe and Kathy Delena had always taught me that our pets were family members. They deserved the same love and care as everyone else.
My parents feared putting Bianca through the stress of yet another unnecessary flight. So my father embarked on the endless drive from Paris to Turin to make the journey as easy on her as possible.
Emanuele initially kept a discreet distance. Eventually, however, he crossed paths with my parents and shook their hands.
My family had already met too many of the wrong men over the years. “You really can pick ’em, Emilia” had practically become their motto.
I wasn’t prepared to introduce Emanuele as someone I was dating. The minute I did, they would give him the (well-deserved) suspicious side-eye, and I still felt as though I needed to figure out exactly what this was.
As I sit here now, I have to laugh. I still haven’t figured it out.
Mr. and Mrs. Delena stayed with Elena and me for a couple of weeks while they signed the closing papers on their new villa in Gassino Torinese.
Located in the northeastern hills of Turin, among old farms, churches, and villas, the house had a surprisingly similar look and feel to the home my father had spent twenty years renovating in Franklin, Michigan. It was in the right place, at the right price. It had us at hello.
I had come across the villa while carrying out the house search my parents had assigned to me the year before.
Those two weeks were… interestingly awkward. I could tell my parents strongly suspected that something was going on between Emanuele and me. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only man I was “talking to,” so their suspicions were tempered by the sight of me getting dressed up and going out with others.
Elena is exceptionally good at keeping things to herself. Thank God.
The new family dynamic quickly became clear. Elena and I were no longer mother and daughter. We were the kids, and my parents were the adults. We had always had each other’s backs, but now, we were more like accomplices.
They’re Like Potato Chips: You Can’t Have Just One
When I had first met Emanuele, he initially told me that he didn’t like dogs. They made him nervous because he had been bitten as a kid.
Maggie was a part of my everyday. Her owner, Valentino, doesn’t have the same relationship with dogs that I do.
He had gotten her off a sheep farm in Abruzzo, where his mother, Assunta, was from.
Puppies born out in the pasture were common, so the farmer just gave Maggie to Valentino while there for a visit.
I met Maggie for the first time in 2013 when she was just 2 months old. I was living in Castelvecchio for the second time in my life, and Valentino lived about 6 minutes up the road. I remember him opening the door, and there she was sitting in front of the couch, just a sweet little white furry pupper with skunk breath and sharp teeth.
Valentino had always been the sort of person who solved one problem only to create another. I’d known him for thirty years, long enough to recognize the pattern. Getting Maggie was one of those decisions.
Valentino lived alone, and he got her to keep him company. He’s an entrepreneur. When Assunta was still alive, she often helped with Maggie when he was away, but she lived in the city, didn’t drive, and Valentino was always situated in a place that necessarily had to be reached by car. Arranging for Assunta’s help wasn’t always possible.
Assunta loved Maggie. She always gave Maggie strict orders in a commanding voice, and Maggie always obeyed. Assunta would just giggle lovingly and say, “She’s so cute.”
When Valentino became my neighbor in 2018 in Strada Valpiana, I had known him for thirty years. He was Assunta’s son, and Assunta had been our custodian when she still worked at Castelvecchio back in 1986. We kept our relationship going even when my family moved back to Metro Detroit in 1988.
Assunta had a third-grade education, but her values were extremely noble - more noble than some nobles I had come across in my life.
She helped me and my family countless times. Took care of Elena, took care of me when I needed it. She even flew into Detroit with me during Christmas of 2011. Assunta was family. Valentino was a natural extension of what I shared with her.
Like Emanuele, he too became enamored with where I was living, and when the apartment next to me freed up, he moved in next door.
It wasn’t until I watched Valentino leave for days at a time, unconcerned, leaving Maggie outdoors without any food or water - no matter the weather conditions that I realized how unconscientious he could be.
While I knew she was drinking water from the brook in the forest behind the house and seemed to never be starving, I just couldn’t bear thinking no one was taking care of her. So in lieu of Assunta’s presence, I started caring for her as though she were my dog, often staying indoors with us, sometimes overnight, and often while we sat down to eat. She knew I was a sucker; I love to share what’s on my plate, and Maggie, like family, was there to accept my offerings.
The first time Emanuele dined at our house, he looked at Maggie and said, “Can’t she go outside while we’re eating?”
I just looked at him and said, “No,” while offering her a little piece of meat that I had cut from the chicken on my plate. Emanuele watched in disgust as she gently took the little piece of meat with her front teeth, never daring to touch my fingers.
She may have been a country dog that often smelled like a wild hog, but she was always very elegant, often sitting politely with her front paws crossed.
The day after Emanuele moved in, I had gone up the stairs to his balcony. As I went to knock on the door, I turned around, and there he was, napping on the ground while embracing Maggie.
By September, Emanuele and Maggie were always going on hikes in the woods together, and sometimes I’d join them. I don’t think she ever wore a leash in her life up until that point. She roamed the neighborhood freely, and the surrounding fence to our property was full of holes that she could easily slip in and out of.
On the last day of November, Elena came to me with her phone, “Mom, my classmate sent out a message to everyone saying these three puppies need a home.” Showing me a picture of three adorable white fluff balls. “He said his father found them abandoned on the highway in southern Italy, and wants to find homes for them. Can we get one?”
At first, I said, “No.” And then, within the hour, “Well, actually. We live in a place where we could have one…” By the next morning, “Yes, it’s time! Let’s get a puppy!”
I picked up the phone and called my parents. Their immediate response was, “What about the other two? They need a home.”
My mother said, “Giuseppe, let’s take them.”
And it was settled. The three little sisters had a home.
My parents picked all of them up on December 3rd from the man who had taken it upon himself to make sure those three babies wouldn’t be left there to die. He had been feeding them milk and cookies since he had found them. My parents drove them straight to the vet, and Elena and I joined them there.
Elena and I named our chosen puppy Uma, and my parents named theirs Nina and Simona.
Bianca had been slowing down since the move, but when Nina and Simona showed up at the house, her maternal instincts kicked in, and Bianca was once again looking jovial and enthusiastic. She now had a greater purpose than barking at cars driving by and birds.
That night, my mother put down blankets on the kitchen floor and created a little place for the three puppies to sleep. But Nina and Simona, smaller than the height of each stair, made their way up the entire flight to my parents’ bedroom and slept peacefully on the floor in a pile next to my father and Bianca for the entire night. They knew they were home, and they knew who the boss was.
I had advised Valentino multiple times over the years to have Maggie fixed. Every six months, like clockwork, we had dogs from all over trying to breach our yard as soon as she went into heat. Valentino would just say, “Naw… She’s never going to get pregnant. She’s nearly 7, it’s never happened, she’s probably sterile. Besides, I think it’d be kind of cool if she had puppies.”
Well, he got his wish. Like Bianca, Maggie’s maternal instincts kicked in when she met Uma. The difference was, Bianca was fixed.
Something clicked inside of Maggie, and I could tell. At the end of December, she went into heat three months early. Emanuele and I went to Courmayeur together to celebrate New Year’s with a group of friends. Elena stayed behind. She started calling me with a bit of concern, “Mom, Maggie is going with dogs all over the neighborhood.”
When I got home, during the first week of January, I took one look at her and said, “Maggie, you’re in trouble. I think you have some ‘splainin’ to do.”
Ten’s a Charm
Two weeks later, I knocked on Valentino’s door. When he answered, “Maggie’s pregos.”
Valentino: “No… Oh, come on. You think?”
Me: I’m sure. Can’t you see she’s getting a little thicker around the waist?”
Valentino: “She’s just fat. She’s been gaining weight since you’ve been feeding her all the time.”
Me: “Valentino, she needs to go to the vet.”
Valentino: “We’ll see. If she gets bigger, we’ll take her.”
Guess who took her. I did.
I ended up buying Maggie a collar and leash, and taking her furry little bitch buns to the local vet at the bottom of the hill.
The vet felt her stomach, listened with the stethoscope, and said, “Yep. She’s pregnant.”
Over the next few weeks, Emanuele helped plan the delivery. He had become so attached to her that he built her a whelping box, specifically designed with inner rails so that she wouldn’t accidentally crush the puppies.
On March 3rd, at 3 a.m., Maggie came to my bedroom and placed her paw on my arm. She was letting me know it was time.
Completely out of it, I stumbled down the steps with her. She began panting heavily, and shortly thereafter, the first puppy came out. She was white like her mother, but unfortunately, was stillborn. I covered the poor little soul up in a cloth and put her in a shoebox. I was going to have to bury her later.
By the time the second puppy came out an hour later, I was nervous about whether it would be alive. But this time, as soon as Maggie cleaned it off, suddenly, a cry! Just like a human baby. It was almost 4 a.m., and for the first time in my life, I witnessed the birth of a tiny little fur baby. I couldn’t believe it! Tears started streaming down my face with joy. It was so cute! A little boy.
Puppies came out about once every hour. Elena came down at about 8 a.m. and made herself useful.
Valentino came over around 9 and brought his buddy over. Within minutes, I kicked them out of my house. Maggie and I had work to do, and having a couple of guys hanging around just to discuss the puppies’ cuteness while trying to pick them up was not only a distraction, but incredibly annoying and inappropriate.
At around noon, Emanuele popped his head in. As usual, he woke up just in time for lunch.
He opened the door; Maggie was standing there panting. Suddenly, she pushed out a black-and-white spotted baby that resembled a micro-cow. That was Ray.
Every puppy had been all white until Ray.
Then came Carlino, also all white, but 1/2 the size of the others. Then Shamú, a golden pup 1/3 larger than the rest of the litter.
And last but not least, Tabú. He looked like he was wearing a black tuxedo. White paws and a white chest. The mystery of who their father was had been solved. It was Odi, the 1/2 border collie, 1/2 Swiss shepherd that belonged to the family in the next villa over.
By late afternoon, nine puppies were whimpering in the whelping box, and Maggie was grinning from ear to ear.
Just before sunset, I made my way to the forest with Emanuele with a shovel and the shoebox with the stillborn puppy. He dug a hole, we placed the box in the ground, covered it, and we bowed our heads in silence.
In that moment, I was sad, but it took days for me to absorb the events of that night. In the days that followed, I learned that there were techniques for reviving an unresponsive newborn. I began to wonder whether, had I done more research before becoming a midwife, I might have been able to save her.
Weeks later, I confessed my grief to a friend, who finally talked some sense into me.
“Nature did its job. You took care of Maggie and her babies, and you saved a runt. I’d say you did more than your part.”
Lockdown Heaven
My mother had planned to visit Paul and Karen back in Metro Detroit at the end of February. There had been a lot of fear over the previous month surrounding this deadly disease called COVID, along with buzzing rumors that Italy could be locked down.
My mother decided to take off anyway. She’s well known for having a hard time with change. Rearrange the furniture, and it will end in tears.
Now imagine the magnitude of change when it came to moving to Italy.
While it is true that she had gone along with my father’s plan to retire to Italy.
It didn’t mean it would be easy or that it wouldn’t result in at least some emotional turmoil.
Most people, at any age, would have a hard time with that kind of move. Kathy was 70.
It was not much of a surprise that she’d often burst out with threats of leaving my father behind alone in Italy with the dogs. My dad would just shrug and say (as he always does when she’s mad at him), “She’ll get over it.”
She repeated multiple times in the days before her departure, “I’m never coming back.”
It was simply Kathy’s theatrical way of processing the move—until the universe responded, OK, let’s see about that.
Well, exactly one week after the puppies were born, Italy locked down. I remember that I was driving around downtown in the middle of the afternoon, having just left a client’s house.
My cell phone rings. It was my friend, Jane.
“What are you doing?” She asked.
“I’m driving home; the streets are all empty. I wonder what’s going on.” I responded.
Jane: “Get your ass home straight away. If the police catch you, you’re going to be in huge trouble!”
Me: “Why, what’s going on?”
Jane: “Do you live under a rock? They announced today that the country is on lockdown, and you’re not allowed to leave the house.”
When I got home, Elena was upstairs in her room, texting her friends. I peeked my head in.
“Mom, school is closed for the rest of the week.”
We looked at each other and high-fived. It was like having a series of pre-planned snow days.
I couldn’t count the number of times I had driven her to school, exhausted after working through the night, my Starbucks tumbler filled with tea, asking her, “When is this hell going to end?”
A few days later came a moment I’ll never forget. It was dark outside, and I went over to Emanuele’s house. He was upstairs in his bedroom, working out. When I reached the top of the stairs, he looked at his phone and read aloud:
“It’s been declared that the world is in a state of emergency. We are officially experiencing a pandemic.”
It was such an odd feeling. I wasn’t scared. It felt like a scene from a movie—that moment when a major event is announced, and you know people’s reality has changed forever.
That was us in that tiny room as thunder began to clap outside.
I texted Elena. “Come over.”
We huddled in Emanuele’s kitchen and spent the night cooking, laughing, eating, and telling one another stories.
The next morning, the sun was shining brightly. At the bottom of the stairs, Maggie was sleeping with her babies. In the middle of the floor, Tabù was swimming his way across the living room.
Not even ten days old, his eyes still closed, he had somehow climbed over the side of the whelping box and escaped into the middle of the room.
I thought, Oh boy. This one is going to be an escape artist.
I think sometimes I was born opposite of the world.
During COVID, while the world was struggling, I was thriving.
For once, nobody needed me to be anywhere. There were no school runs and no driving up and down that hill one too many times a day. I didn’t have to sit in traffic, cut people off, or get honked at. The total lack of chaos was almost deafening at first.
My days were measured in puppy feedings, long walks through the hills, projects that had been sitting on standby for years, and whatever the three of us decided to cook that evening.
I made pillows and sewed curtains with fabric I had bought years earlier. I created elaborate headbands just for fun. Elena and I baked cookies, bread, and cakes nonstop. The grocery store was one of the only legal places to shop. Lord knows I love to shop, and I love to cook. Let’s just say I found a way to satisfy my shopping addiction regardless of the lockdown.
Every evening after dinner, we crashed on my large white couch and watched a movie together. Mind you, Emanuele had always insisted that he didn’t enjoy movies.
Much like his disdain for dogs, that was something else he changed his mind about.
I would often fall asleep with my head on his shoulder and Elena’s head on mine.
Even financially, I was doing OK. I had enough graphic design work with KI Group, an organic food company, to earn a decent income, and a pile of outstanding invoices that were, luckily, getting paid.
Before COVID, I was active on social media. That was when I stopped. I knew that what the world was experiencing stood in stark contrast to my own life, and announcing how happy I was simply didn’t feel right.
It wasn’t long before we began hearing about people around us dying.
The first was our neighbor’s nanny. Then came friends of friends and relatives of friends.
Meanwhile, my mother was stuck in Michigan, unable to fly home and regretting her famous last words: “I’m never coming back!”
My father, considering that he was on lockdown alone with three dogs, was also doing remarkably well, especially enjoying the peace and quiet at first. He spent his days riding his new tractor around the yard, cooking for himself, gardening, and reading books. But around halfway through, he was really starting to miss my mom and looking forward to seeing me.
As the puppies approached their first month, their personality had already become apparent.
Carlino, the runt of the litter, was still 1/3 the size of Shamú. Had nature had her way, he wouldn’t have made it.
His paws were always freezing cold, so I carried him around in my bra all day to keep him warm, and I made sure that Maggie gave him dedicated titty time because he simply didn’t have the strength to push his way through to the nipple with his siblings pushing him aside.
During the second month, while on one of our walks, we ended up on the edge of someone’s property. Off into the distance, we saw a large, long-bearded man wearing tattered clothes walking towards us. As he got close enough to see our faces, he yelled out, “Zangi?” A nickname his buddies gave Emanuele when he started high school. In fact, it was one of his high school buddies, Michele, living just on the other side of our hill - on a communal farm.
The two friends wanted to hug as old-time buddies do after reuniting. But they awkwardly kept a “safe distance.”
Michele’s kids and wife came out of the house and socialized with us for a while, maintaining that “safe distance.” After an hour, we invited his friend to come by our place next time. They agreed and said they’d be by in two days’ time.
Inviting them over was, of course, completely illegal. In our minds, staying outside in the garden and keeping our distance made it slightly less illegal. It did not.
Emanuele and I returned home hand in hand.
Lockdown Hell
Two days later, I woke up as happy as can be. The babies had left me 32 piles of poo to clean up that morning. I know because I counted them (out of curiosity).
Emanuele was usually at my house by lunchtime. He was always ready to share a meal. But not that day. In fact, by mid-afternoon, there was still no sign of him. I began to wonder if he was OK.
Shortly after, I saw Michele and his family at the gate, and Emanuele going towards it to let them in.
I walked out to greet them, but Emanuele looked at me coldly, as though my presence were unwelcome.
Confused and kind of hurt, I excused myself and closed myself in my house. From the window, I saw him showing them around the property. About twenty minutes later, he knocked on my door. He was there standing with everyone, still making it apparent that things between us were not alright.
He said, “They’d like to see the dogs.”
So I took the pen out to the center of the yard and placed the puppies in it one by one. I didn’t know why, but Emanuele was making it abundantly clear that he did not want me around. So I turned around and went back into the house.
When his friends finally left, he called Elena and asked her to put the puppies back into the house.
I didn’t know what had changed. Maybe nothing had happened that morning. Maybe he had already withdrawn emotionally and was simply going through with plans we had made two days earlier. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t.
For two days, Emanuele stayed silent, locked in his house. On the third day, Elena and I baked some chocolate-chip cookies. I placed some in a bag and left it on his doorstep.
I wrote, “I hope you’re doing OK.”
He wrote me a WhatsApp message minutes later: “Thank you.”
On the 4th day, I walked out to my car to get something in it. Emanuele, seated on his balcony in a yoga position looking down, says, “Can we talk?”
Me: “Sure, when?”
Emanuele: “Right now.”
So I walk up the stairs to his balcony. He sat there in a meditative pose with his eyes closed, legs folded, and hands resting on his knees, basking in the sunlight.
So I sat down on the cushion lying on the ground, and simply waited for him to acknowledge me.
After about five minutes of total silence, he finally opened his eyes. “OK… how are you?”
Me: “I’m fine. How are you?”
There was a heaviness in his tone, and I was just standing there waiting to hear what was stirring in his head.
He took me by the hand and walked me into his house and invited me to sit on his couch.
“I have to tell you something. I know you’ve noticed I’ve been very quiet. The reason is I wanted to process some of my emotions.
Haven’t you noticed we haven’t slept in the same bed since COVID started?”
Me: “Yes, I hinted at it a few times, but I didn’t want to pressure you.”
Emanuele: “Don’t you want to know why?”
Me: “Of course I do.”
Emanuele: “I was afraid that you would expect us, expect me to do something.”
Me: “What are you talking about? Afraid of what?”
Emanuele: “I don’t know how to put it to you, I don’t feel physically stimulated by you.”
I think I heard something crack inside my brain. It was as though there had been a glitch and my mind was scrambling to process what he had just said.
“Emanuele, I thought you were stressed because you had just quit your job. Or nervous about the lockdown. What are you talking about? This has never happened to me before.”
“Guess what? This has never happened to me with a woman before either. I’ve always wanted them. Everyone except you,” he said bluntly.
My vision went blurry, and I could hear some words coming through as though they were in the distance: “You’re like a hurricane. You have too many projects going on at once. You leave boxes with stuff to be put away for weeks before you finally get to it.”
He went on with a series of strange, disconnected observations about how I managed my household.
I curled into a ball and cried out. When I tried to stand, my legs wouldn’t hold me, so I crawled toward the door.
“Calm down,” Emanuele said. “Shhh… This is no one’s fault.” Those words did not comfort me at all. I was being told that I was clearly the problem, but that it was no one’s fault.
Eventually, I managed to pull myself off the cold tile floor and make my way home.
Elena took one look at my tear-streaked face and said, “Mom, what’s wrong?”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “He doesn’t want me.”
Elena: “What?! What do you mean?
Me: “He just told me he doesn’t want me.”
Elena: “WTF!? Mom, I’m sorry.”
We had become so close that sometimes she had to absorb pain I should have protected her from.
That was the second time Emanuele shattered my heart.
