Rita's Point Of View
I stared at my mother, my jaw physically locking into place as the hum of the Texas night air suddenly felt twenty degrees colder. The cicadas that had been singing moments before seemed to fall silent, as if nature itself held its breath.
Did she just ask how I've been?
I studied the thin, perfectly painted lips, the trembling chin, the fragile posture of Matilda Moore. This was the exact same woman who had stood on the front porch of this very estate twenty-five years ago, watching the rain pour down while two burly security guards literally dragged me down the steps with nothing but the wet clothes on my back.
I could still remember the sound of my shoes scraping against the stone, the way the rain had mixed with my tears until I couldn't tell them apart.
The same woman who hadn't sent a single letter, a single dollar, or a single thought while I scraped flour off the bakery floor in Rome, wondering if I could afford Seraphina's cough medicine.
