She does, leaning back against me while I work through the tangles with practiced care. The brush pulls through stubborn knots, and she hums under her breath, some Italian lullaby Nonna Rosa used to sing that I taught her years ago when nightmares were bad and this was the only magic I had to offer.
"Mom?" She twists to look at me, and the worry in her eyes doesn't belong on an eight-year-old's face. "When we visit Nonno on Saturday... will he remember my name this time?"
My hand pauses, brush still above her head.
Don't cry. Don't you dare cry. She needs you to be strong.
"I mean..." She's watching me carefully now, reading my face the way she's learned to read everyone's face. "Last time he called me Maria. That's not even close to Francesca."
"Maria was his sister." The words come out steady even though nothing inside me feels that way. "She died when he was young. Sometimes people's brains get confused about time."
"Does his brain hurt?"
"No, tesoro. It doesn't hurt."
I hope. I pray. I have no idea.
"Then why do you look sad when we leave?"
I set the brush aside and pull her towards me, cupping her small face in my hands. Eight years old and already asking questions I don't have answers for. Already carrying pieces of adult grief because I can't protect her from everything, no matter how hard I try.
"Come here."
She burrows against me, all warmth and shampoo smell and the feeling of absolute trust. I hold her tighter than I should, pressing my lips to the top of her head.
This. This is why I survive. This is why I count exits and push through fear and take pills from Sal's doctors and do everything he asks. For her. Always for her.
"He loves you," I whisper against her hair. "Even when he can't remember your name, he loves you. Okay?"
"Okay." Her arms squeeze around my waist. "I love you, Mamma."
"I love you more than anything in this world." I ease her back down onto the pillows, tucking the blanket around her shoulders the way she likes it—tight, secure, no gaps where the cold can sneak in. "Now sleep."
"Will you stay?"
"For a little while."
I turn off the butterfly lamp. The nightlight takes over, casting an even softer purple across her face as her eyes drift closed. The ocean sounds fill the silence between us, and I watch her chest rise and fall, counting her breaths the way I've done since the night she was born.
One. Two. Three.
Three minutes pass. Five. Her breathing evens out into the rhythm of real sleep.
I press a kiss to her forehead and slip out, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
The living room welcomes me with familiar and comfortable shapes. I don't turn on the overhead light, just the reading lamp beside the armchair that's been my spot since we moved in. It's a warm pool of gold against the darkness. The rest of the house settles into stillness around me.
This is my ritual. After Chesca's asleep, after the world stops demanding things. Just me and the leather-bound journal that's lived in the drawer of the side table for eight years.
Proof that I'm still here. Proof that my mind still works. Proof that I won't disappear the way he's disappearing.
The cover is soft now, worn from handling, the pages thick enough that my pen doesn't bleed through. I curl into the chair, tuck my feet beneath me, and flip to a fresh page.
Still mine. Still familiar.
I write today's date in the upper right corner the way I always do, and press the pen to paper. The scratch of ink against the textured paper steadies something inside me.
Conference at the Fairmont. Arrived at 5:45 PM. Black wrap dress, pearls. Judge Whitmore asked about the Ramirez case. I cited precedent, deflected his condescension. Ordered club soda and Patricia Brown joined me at the bar. She complimented my work on Okonkwo. Genuine conversation. Rare. Good.