Page 15 of All is Not Lost

I can feel the disapproval radiating from his words, and I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. But before I can answer, Marco interrupts with a sneer.

"So, you’re from New York? What do you know about Italy?" he scoffs.

I try to keep my composure, reminding myself they are just trying to protect their son. But when Rosaria's next question cuts even deeper, I begin to lose my patience.

"And your parents," she asks pointedly, "do they even care enough to visit you in Italy?"

The mention of my parents brings back painful memories of our strained relationship, worsened by the recent breakup with Daniel. And now, here are these strangers dredging it all up and judging me for it.

"They don't need to visit because they've already disowned me," I snap back, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice.

Marco's face contorts into a look of disgust while Rosaria's eyes widen with surprise. I know family is everything to them, and me not talking to my parents isn’t going to be well approved here.

"Isn’t that very American," Marco mutters under his breath.

“So, what are your plans then?” Rosario asks. “When your little vacation here is over?”

I stare at her, not knowing what to answer. “I haven’t made plans for the future at all,” I say. “I just know that I like Giovanni, and I like being around him.”

Rosario gives me a look. “So, he is like—what do you say—like a toy to you? One you can throw away after you’re done? Forget about when you leave and go back to your own country while he is left with a broken heart?”

Her words finally cause Giovanni to speak up.

"That's enough," he says sternly, defending me for the first time since we arrived.

But the damage has been done, and an uncomfortable silence lingers in the air. My attempts at finding common ground or a connection with them feel futile now, and I'm left wondering why I even wanted them to like me in the first place.

I can't help but feel resentful toward these strangers who are judging me based on my nationality and social status. And I know that, deep down, they will never truly accept or understand me.

Rosaria's smile fades into a frown as she watches Giovanni and me exchange a look filled with unspoken tension. She clears her throat uncomfortably, breaking the awkward moment.

"I should probably start dinner," she says quietly, avoiding our eyes. "Sophia, would you mind helping me in the kitchen?"

I glance at her momentarily before turning to Giovanni, who looks conflicted and hurt. "I think I'll just stay here and relax," I say, not wanting to leave his side.

Rosaria nods and leaves the room, leaving us alone in this new atmosphere of tension. We sit in uncomfortable silence until, finally, Giovanni speaks up.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his tone sharp with worry. “My mother is trying to be nice when asking you for help in the kitchen. Why did you say no?”

My heart races at the thought of confessing my doubts and fears to him. Will he understand? Or will he be angry and push me away?

“I don’t cook,” I say.

“It’s not about cooking. It’s about getting to know you.”

"She’s your mother," I blurt out, unable to hold back any longer. "Not mine. Plus, she doesn't trust me. She thinks I'll leave as soon as I am tired of you. She thinks I’m not serious about you."

Giovanni seems taken aback by my words, his face softening into an expression of sadness mixed with frustration. "No, that's not true," he argues, reaching for my hand across the couch.

"But it is," I insist, pulling my hand away. "I can see it in the way she looks at me. Like I'm not good enough for you or this family."

"That's not true," he repeats firmly. "My mother just wants what's best for me."

"Which is why she wants me out of your life, right? Because I'm not Italian enough or pretty enough or woman enough or whatever else she thinks makes a suitable partner for you."

"That's not it at all!" he exclaims, standing up abruptly. "You are more than enough for me, Sophia. You are everything I want."

"Then why does it feel like your mother is trying to push me away?" I retort, standing up to face him.

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