Chapter 2 - THE HOUSE THAT FORGOT HOW TO SING
At breakfast, my security chief found me in the nursery.
He stopped in the doorway when he saw me sitting on the floor with Rosie against my chest and Maisie lying on a play mat. A board book rested open across my knees. I was attempting to read about a rabbit who had lost his red hat.
“Boss?”
“Not now, Marco.”
His eyes moved from the book to the baby in my arms. “I can come back.”
“You can speak.”
He entered carefully. Marco Bellini had worked for my family for fourteen years. He had been beside me through negotiations, funerals, and two attempts on my life. He had never looked as uncertain as he did watching me turn a page for a four-month-old.
“There's a problem with the west gate,” he said.
“Fix it.”
“It's already fixed. I wanted to tell you the new nanny was in the nursery all night.”
“Elise was doing her job.”
“She was alone with the girls after midnight.”
I looked at him. “That's generally when babies wake.”
Marco's expression did not change. “You asked me to report anything unusual.”
“I asked you to protect my daughters, not monitor a woman for making them laugh.”
He accepted the correction without argument, but his gaze lingered on the girls. “You seem different this morning.”
“I slept.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
I closed the book. “Then don't mean anything.”
After he left, I found Elise in the kitchen preparing bottles. She had changed into a clean uniform, but the yellow gloves were tucked into the pocket of her cardigan.
“Those are coming with you everywhere now?” I asked.
She glanced down. “The girls asked for the duck.”
“They can't ask for anything.”
“They can look disappointed.”
I almost smiled. It surprised me enough that I turned toward the coffee machine.
Elise moved around the kitchen with quiet efficiency. She measured formula, checked temperatures, and marked each bottle with the time. There was no wasted motion. Yet she hummed while she worked.
The house had not heard a woman hum in months.
“Do you always sing?” I asked.
“Only when I'm thinking.”
“What are you thinking about?”
“That Maisie is going to want another ounce, and Rosie will pretend she doesn't until her sister gets one.”
As if summoned, Maisie began making small noises from the nursery. Elise smiled and reached for the bottle.
I watched her go.
My wife had been the center of the house. Not because she demanded attention, but because she filled every room without trying. She sang while cooking, left notes on the refrigerator, and talked to the flowers as if they were stubborn employees. After she died, I had ordered the staff to keep everything exactly as it had been. The flowers were replaced. The furniture remained. The music stopped.
I had mistaken preservation for love.
That afternoon, Elise asked permission to move the rocking chair closer to the window.
“Why?” I asked.
“Morning light helps the girls stay alert during the day. If they nap in a bright room for a little while, it may help their nights.”
“Do it.”
She hesitated. “And I'd like to take them into the garden when the weather is warmer.”
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
Elise nodded. “All right.”
I knew I had sounded harsh. I also knew the garden was where Sofia had collapsed. The ambulance had driven across the circular path, leaving a dark mark on the stones that the groundskeepers had scrubbed away. I still saw it whenever I passed the windows.
“Not yet,” I said.
Elise looked at me. “Not yet is different from no.”
I didn't answer.
That evening, I found a small photograph tucked behind the music box. It showed Sofia in the garden, holding Maisie against her shoulder while Rosie slept in a carrier. Her hair was loose, her face turned toward the camera. She was laughing at something outside the frame.
I sat on the nursery floor for a long time.
Elise came in carrying folded laundry. She saw the photograph and stopped.
“She looks happy,” she said.
“She was.”
“Your daughters have her smile.”
I put the photograph down. “They don't remember her.”
“They can still know her.”
“How?”
“Stories. Pictures. Her voice, if you have recordings. Little things she loved. You don't have to tell them everything now. You can let them grow into the story.”
I stared at the photograph.
“I don't have recordings.”
Elise looked toward the music box. “Perhaps there are some in her things.”
I wanted to tell her to stop. Instead, I asked, “Would you help me look?”
We searched the small cabinet beneath the window. There were baby blankets, cards, and a stack of envelopes tied with a blue ribbon. The top envelope bore my name in Sofia's handwriting.
I did not open it.
Elise pretended not to notice my shaking hand.
“Would you like me to leave?” she asked.
“No.”
She sat on the rug at a respectful distance. We stayed there until the twins woke.
Later, when I finally opened the envelope, the letter contained only a few lines.
Matteo, if the girls ever have a hard night, sing to them. They won't care if you sing badly. They will only care that you stayed.
I read it three times.
Then I folded it carefully and placed it in my pocket.
That night, I tried to sing.
My voice was low and rough. I forgot half the tune. Maisie stared at me as if I had personally offended her. Rosie began to fuss.
Elise, standing by the changing table, did not laugh.
“Keep going,” she said.
I did.
By the second verse, Maisie's eyelids began to droop. Rosie quieted against my shoulder. I sang until the last note disappeared.
When I looked up, Elise's eyes were shining.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I think Sofia would have liked hearing you.”
The words were simple. They should not have mattered. But I had spent months imagining that speaking my wife's name would break something. Instead, it made the room feel less empty.
After Elise left, I placed the letter beside the music box.
The house had not become happy. Not yet.
But it had remembered how to sing.
I began to notice how the staff reacted when I entered a room. Conversations stopped. People straightened. The house had learned to anticipate my anger, and I had allowed that habit to become part of its architecture. One afternoon, I found a housekeeper carrying a tray with shaking hands. She nearly dropped a glass when I asked whether the twins had slept. I told her to put the tray down and breathe. She looked at me as if I had spoken in a language she did not know.
Later, I asked Elise whether I frightened the staff. She considered the question before answering. “They respect you,” she said. “But sometimes they seem more worried about making a mistake than doing the right thing.” I disliked hearing it. I disliked even more that I could not call it untrue. I had built my authority on the certainty that people would obey. I had not considered what obedience cost them.
That evening, I asked the house manager to gather the staff. I told them that no one would be punished for waking me if the girls needed something. I also told them that if they saw a problem, they were expected to speak. The room remained silent. I realized a speech would not change years of habit, so I asked each person to tell me one thing the house needed. The answers were small: better lighting in the service corridor, a proper break schedule, repairs to the laundry room. I wrote them down.
When I returned to the nursery, Elise was rocking Rosie. “You changed the schedule?” she asked. I nodded. “Good,” she said, as though I had finally remembered to buy something from the grocery list. Her lack of ceremony made the change feel possible. I sat beside her and listened to the music box until the girls slept.
At lunch, I asked the cook to prepare Sofia's favorite soup. The kitchen staff exchanged a glance, unsure whether I had made a mistake. I had not ordered that dish since the funeral. When the bowl arrived, I carried it upstairs and placed it on the small table near the nursery window. The smell brought back a memory of Sofia sitting cross-legged on the counter, insisting that soup tasted better when eaten from a mug. I had told her that was ridiculous. She had made me try it anyway.
Elise noticed the bowl. “Is that hers?”
“It was.”
“Would you like the girls to know she loved it?”
May you like
I nodded. Elise told them a small story about their mother, even though they were too young to understand. She described Sofia's habit of stealing the last spoonful and pretending she had no idea where it went. I listened, then added that she used to put too much pepper in everything. Elise laughed. The memory did not hurt less, exactly. It simply had somewhere to go besides the center of my chest.
Afterward, I asked the cook to keep the soup on the menu. It was an ordinary request, but it felt like opening a window in a room that had been shut for months.
