It happened on a Thursday afternoon. The bakery had just seen off the last wave of afternoon tea customers. The air still held the scent of olive oil from the focaccia and the lingering aroma of coffee. Elisa came downstairs—she and Lorenzo had just finished another frustrating video call with the Milan lawyers—her face etched with obvious fatigue, but her eyes still sharp, like a dagger that needs constant polishing to stay bright.
Maria was behind the counter tallying the day's earnings. Seeing Elisa, she immediately put down the coins, her hands—roughened by years of kneading dough—wiped casually on her apron as she hurried over.
"Another meeting? You look terrible." Without waiting for a reply, Maria grabbed Elisa's hands, her brow deeply furrowed. "Your hands are freezing! There's some chicken broth left from this morning. I'll heat a bowl for you. Where's Lorenzo? Did that boy get so caught up in paperwork he forgot to remind you to eat?"
"Maria, I'm not hungry…" Elisa tried to protest, but the weariness in her voice robbed it of conviction.
"Not hungry or not, you're having some! Look at you, your chin's all pointy! Keep this up, a strong wind could blow you right back to Milan!" Maria's voice was loud, brimming with unquestioning care. Still muttering, she briskly turned and disappeared into the small kitchen at the back, the sounds of clattering pots soon following.
Elisa sighed, but a faint, genuine smile touched the corners of her mouth. She didn't follow. Instead, she leaned against the counter, watching Maria's busy back in the kitchen. The stove was lit again, a pot sizzling softly. Soon, the rich aroma of chicken soup filled the air. Maria poked her head out while heating the soup. "A dash of white pepper! To ward off the chill! And no arguing!"
Sofia stood by the sink in the kitchen corner, a mixing bowl still in her hands under the running water. She'd forgotten to move. She watched the scene: her own daughter, the Elisa who in Milan always stood ramrod straight with icy eyes, seemingly needing no one's care, now being looked after by another woman in the most direct, roughest, yet warmest way possible. And Elisa… she was smiling. Not the flawless, practiced smile of social occasions, but a subtle softness and dependence that came from lowered defenses, shining from her eyes.
That smile was like a fine needle, piercing straight into the deepest part of Sofia's heart. It hurt. Ached. Stung. And carried a burning jealousy she refused to admit.
**Once upon a time…** A memory so distant it had almost faded forced its way into her mind. In the sun-drenched glass conservatory of the Milan mansion, a tiny Elisa, maybe five or six, stumbling towards her, holding up a freshly picked rose wet with dew, chirping, "Mamma! Bella!" She remembered she had smiled then, bent down to pick up her daughter, smelling the sunshine and innocence in her hair… When did that smile vanish? When did those embraces turn cold and distant? When did her gaze start looking past her daughter, seeing only her husband's silence, her father-in-law's pressure, and that ever-gaping black hole named "loss"?
The sound of running water suddenly felt jarring. Sofia abruptly turned off the tap. The ceramic mixing bowl slipped from her wet hands, clattering loudly into the sink. Luckily, it didn't break.
Maria and Elisa both turned to look at her.
"I'm sorry…" Sofia hurriedly lowered her head, fumbling to retrieve the bowl, her voice trembling. "Slipped…"
Maria glanced at Sofia's pale face and trembling hands, then at Elisa. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully before she boomed in her characteristic loud voice, "Oh dear, you must be exhausted! These dishes are heavy and slippery. Everyone's like that at first! Elisa, you go upstairs and rest. The soup's almost ready, I'll bring it up. Sofia, you stop washing too. Come sit, help me taste this soup. I always shake too much salt in!"
She gently nudged Elisa towards the stairs and beckoned Sofia over, her tone so natural it was as if they were old friends.
Elisa looked at her mother's distraught face, then at Maria. Finally, she nodded and headed upstairs.
The kitchen was now just Maria and Sofia. The chicken soup bubbled gently on the stove, its fragrance filling the space. Maria ladled out two small bowls, handed one to Sofia, took one herself, and sat down at the old wooden table in the middle of the kitchen.
"Sit. Drink it while it's hot." Maria blew on her own bowl, took a big sip, and sighed contentedly. "Mm, perfect. Go on, taste it. Is it too salty?"
Sofia sat down mechanically, scooped up a spoonful, and brought it to her mouth. The warm liquid slid down her throat but couldn't warm the icy corner of her heart. Her hand holding the spoon trembled slightly.
Maria watched her for a moment, said nothing, and continued drinking her soup. When Sofia had drunk about half her bowl and a bit of color returned to her face, Maria put down her own bowl. She folded her hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. Her eyes, somewhat clouded by age and labor yet still clear and warm, looked directly at Sofia.
"Alright, dear," Maria's voice softened, no longer loud and boisterous, but carrying a peaceful, maternal strength. "It's just us two mothers here now. Whatever's stuck in your heart, choking you, say it. Hold it in too long, and a person gets sick. Just like dough over-proofed turns sour."
Sofia's head snapped up, meeting Maria's candid gaze. There was no judgment, no mockery, just the understanding of someone who's been through things and a patient waiting.
Everything she'd seen and felt at the bakery these past days, the sting of her daughter's natural closeness with Maria, and those memories she'd forcefully suppressed for twenty years—memories that had festered and rotted—now found a sluice gate.
Tears welled up without warning, blurring her vision. Sofia looked down at the shimmering golden oil droplets in her bowl, her voice choked, almost breaking.
"I… I wasn't a good mother, Maria. I know. I ruined Elisa's childhood, ruined her home, and now… now I'm about to ruin the last thing she has to hold onto." She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. "But… but you know? It wasn't always like this. When she was little… she used to laugh and run into my arms, give me the prettiest flowers she found… The sunlight back then felt warmer too…"
Maria listened quietly, handing over a clean kitchen towel.
Sofia took it but didn't wipe her tears, just clenched it tightly in her hand, knuckles white. Her voice dropped lower, heavier, laden with years of rust-like pain.
"Then… Luca died. My Luca… Elisa's older brother." Saying the name seemed to drain all her strength. Her body swayed. "He jumped in to save Elisa, who'd wandered off to a dangerous part of the pier while playing… He never came back up."
She stopped, gasping for air as if drowning in icy water again. After a long while, she continued in a hoarse whisper.
"After that, everything changed. Looking at Elisa, I'd see the spot where Luca went under. Hearing her laugh, I'd remember Luca's last call to her… I couldn't… I couldn't hold her, love her like before. Every time I got close, my heart felt like it was being cut. I turned all the pain, all the resentment, all the despair of losing Luca… into coldness towards her, and… blame. I thought pushing her away, letting Andrea handle her, making her strong, independent, needing no one… would make it easier for me… would let me pretend Luca's death was just an accident, with nothing to do with me, or with her…"
She finally looked up, tears streaming, her eyes filled with self-loathing and bone-deep regret. "But I was wrong. So terribly wrong. I turned a child who needed a mother into a warrior who could only protect herself with armor. I turned my hatred of fate into a blade pointed at my own daughter. And now… I even colluded with outsiders to destroy everything she's fought so hard to protect… What… what have I done, Maria?"
She collapsed onto the table, weeping uncontrollably. Twenty years of pretense, arrogance, coldness, and twisted hatred crumbled in that moment, leaving only a pitiful, wretched mother consumed by regret and loneliness.
Maria didn't speak. She just stood up, walked to Sofia's side, and wrapped her strong, work-worn arms gently around Sofia's trembling shoulders. No more words. Just a solid, understanding embrace.
When Sofia's sobs gradually subsided into quiet hiccups, Maria released her and sat back down opposite. Her own eyes were slightly red, but her gaze remained warm and steady.
"Sofia," Maria's voice was soft, yet it struck like a hammer. "Losing a child is a pain no words in this world can describe. It's like a piece of your heart is ripped out alive. It never really heals. That, I may not fully understand, but I know."
She paused, her gaze drifting to the window as if remembering something. "But you must know, using the pain of losing one child to punish the child who's still alive… that's a bargain only the devil would make. Luca saved Elisa because he loved her, because he was her brother. When he jumped, the last thing on his mind was 'let my death torment my sister and mother forever.' He thought, 'I have to save my sister.'"
Sofia jolted, looking up at Maria.
"You turned his sacrifice into a curse," Maria said, her gaze clear and sharp. "You made his love a twenty-year ice wall between you and Elisa. If Luca knew, would he be happy? Would he want the two women he loved most to live in a hell of mutual hurt because he left?"
Each word was a hammer blow, smashing the self-deceptive barriers Sofia had stubbornly maintained for twenty years. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
"That child, Elisa," Maria's tone softened, filled with undisguised affection. "She's stronger than we think. And also… softer-hearted. She hates what you did, yes. Anyone would. But she didn't truly abandon you, did she? She brought you here, gave you a roof, even if it's by forcing you to stand on your own feet. Why? Blood ties? Maybe. But I think it's more because somewhere in her heart, that little girl who once ran to her mother with a rose… never truly disappeared. She's waiting for you, Sofia. Not waiting for you to become the perfect society lady again, but waiting for you… to *see* her. To really see her. Not through Luca's shadow, not through the family's expectations. Just see your daughter. Elisa."
Maria reached out, covering Sofia's cold hand with her own. "Tears of remorse have been shed. Time to dry them. Past mistakes are like burnt bread. You can't put them back in the oven, but you can use them for something else—like breadcrumbs to sprinkle on soup, still adding flavor. What matters is, starting today, what will you do? Keep living in the shadow of Luca's death, letting guilt and resentment destroy the last shred of possibility between you? Or… try reaching out a hand, even if it's just to hand her a glass of water, or like now, for her sake, washing this damn bowl properly?"
Sofia stared blankly at Maria, at this woman so different from her in background, experience, and character. Her words weren't elegant, even crude and direct, but they were like a key, clicking open the lock that had rusted shut on her heart for years. All that pent-up resentment, twisted pain, and stubborn self-punishment suddenly seemed so… foolish, so unnecessary in the face of Maria's frank, powerful words.
Yes, Luca wouldn't have wanted this. That sun-warm son would have wanted everyone he loved to live well.
And Elisa… her daughter, had been there all along, bearing everything alone, carrying burdens of guilt and expectation not hers, yet still trying to reach for her from the ruins.
Scalding tears fell again. But this time, they weren't pure, agonized release. They were mixed with endless regret, a sliver of fragile hope, and finally, clear understanding.
"…I… I did unforgivable things to her," Sofia choked out.
"Then spend the rest of your time trying to earn forgiveness," Maria patted her hand and stood up, resuming her usual brisk efficiency. "But before that, dry your tears, finish your soup. Then, go wash those bowls in the sink—and don't let them slip this time. Life goes on. Bread needs baking. One step at a time, dear. One step at a time."
Sofia watched Maria's back as she walked to the stove, then looked down at the tear-dampened towel in her hand and the now-lukewarm soup in her bowl. Slowly, she picked up the spoon and finished the soup, sip by sip. The warm liquid flowed into her stomach, seeming to seep into that place in her heart that had been cold for too long, bringing a faint, almost imperceptible warmth.
Outside, the San Gimignano sunset dyed the stone towers gold and crimson. In the kitchen, the stove fire burned quietly. The scent of bread was eternal and peaceful.
Sofia stood up and walked to the sink. She turned on the tap. Water rushed out. She picked up the mixing bowl that had almost shattered. This time, her hands were steady.
As she washed, a single scalding tear fell, disappearing into the soap suds. But in her heart, something had begun, slowly and painfully, to grow again.