“Ho preso la decisione giusta? Have I made the right decision?” My throat tightens. A solitary tear escapes. A feeling of utter remorse starts to drag me down. I recall the sight of them, my only family; two elderly women dressed in black, the morning we’d left Torino. Their mournful faces and diminutive figures becoming even smaller as the train carried Eugenio and I away, taking us onto the port of Venezia and our ship journey.
“Tesoro. Perche piangi? Darling. Why are you crying?”
I let out a strangled sob of relief and greedily stare into my husband’s pale green eyes. They stare at me with concern. His brown wavy hair, slicked back into a debonair style, is being ruffled by the sea breeze.
“Non sto piangendo. I’m not crying.” Another tear slips out. “Aah!” I give my cheek an impatient swipe. “It’s just … well, I’ve been thinking about Nonna and Mamma and Italia and …,” I end on a self-piteous mumble.
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