Thirty-Four Months
Chapter 10 - Thirty-Four Months
Prison did not make Alessandro poetic.
Thank God.
His first letter arrived six weeks later.
Nora,
Mia’s drawing is on the wall. Nero looks more respected than I do.
I laughed in the supply closet of a client’s house.
I wrote back three days later.
He deserves it.
That was all.
The letters continued.
Not weekly.
Not romantic declarations.
Small reports.
He was assigned to a warehouse inventory unit.
The irony was severe.
He joined a business ethics course run by a volunteer professor.
I told him the universe lacked subtlety.
Open Door grew.
Slowly.
Painfully.
The first year I made less than I had as a maid.
The second year, slightly more.
We hired six women.
Then nine.
Paid sick days were expensive.
So was turnover.
We learned.
I made mistakes.
Once scheduled Mrs. Alvarez for six straight days after promising nobody would work more than five without volunteering.
She put the calendar on my desk.
“You becoming Greta?”
I felt sick.
Then grateful.
I fixed it.
Power does not become harmless because the person holding it remembers being powerless.
That lesson cost me one embarrassed apology and a better scheduling system.
Mia turned four.
Then five.
She stopped dragging the rabbit by one ear and began sleeping with it under her chin.
Nero visited sometimes with Dom.
Officially because Dom hired us to clean his condo.
Unofficially because the dog spent every visit sitting beside Mia.
Greta completed community service at a nonprofit serving retired dockworkers’ families.
She wrote me once.
I did not answer.
Then she sent a second letter a year later.
No request for forgiveness.
Only:
I understand now why being afraid did not give me the right to choose you as the person who could afford to be hurt.
I kept that one.
Still did not answer.
Lorenzo received eleven years.
Victor received four.
Caleb stayed sober.
None of these outcomes felt like endings.
Just consequences arranged on paper.
Miriam occasionally called about restitution claims.
She never asked how I felt about Alessandro.
Another reason I liked her.
I visited him twice the first year.
Once the second.
With Mia only when I thought it would not make prison feel like a promise.
She asked why Uncle Sandro wore the same color as everyone else.
“Uniform.”
“Like Mommy used to?”
Alessandro looked at me.
“Sort of.”
Mia nodded.
“Do you have to clean bathrooms?”
He smiled.
“Yes.”
She seemed delighted by justice.
During the visit, Alessandro did not ask me who I dated.
I dated no one for the first year.
Then a contractor named Evan twice.
Kind man.
Too much cologne.
No chemistry.
Nothing dramatic.
I told Alessandro only because Mia mentioned “Mommy’s dinner man” during a visit.
He went quiet.
Then said:
“I hope dinner was good.”
It wasn’t.
I respected the effort.
Twenty-nine months into his sentence, he qualified for early release based on cooperation, good conduct, and program credits.
He did not tell me the exact day.
Dom did.
Of course.
I did not go to the gate.
I had payroll.
That afternoon, I drove to our tiny office above a laundromat.
Mia, now five, colored at the conference table because school was closed for teacher training.
At four-thirty, the bell downstairs rang.
Footsteps climbed.
Alessandro appeared in the doorway.
Gray at his temples.
Canvas bag over one shoulder.
No suit.
No watch worth more than my car.
He looked nervous.
I liked that more than I should have.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mia saw him.
“UNCLE SANDRO!”
She ran.
He caught her carefully.
The rabbit squashed between them.
He laughed.
Then looked at me over her head.
“I didn’t come to interrupt.”
“You are interrupting payroll.”
“Serious crime.”
“Very.”
He set Mia down.
“I’m staying at a rented townhouse in Evanston.”
“Not the mansion?”
“Sold.”
I knew.
Still strange to hear.
“What now?” I asked.
“Job interview Monday.”
“For what?”
“Compliance.”
I stared.
He smiled.
“I know.”
Mia tugged his sleeve.
“Where’s Nero?”
“With Dom.”
“Can he sleep at our house?”
“No,” we said together.
Mia looked betrayed.
Alessandro laughed.
Then he asked me:
“Coffee sometime?”
I looked at him.
Not prison letters.
Not employer and maid.
Not a man about to surrender and a woman refusing to wait.
Two adults.
Still complicated.
“Maybe.”
His smile was small.
“Better than no.”
“Don’t push it.”
“I remember.”
That was the first test.
He passed.
Before he left, Mia gave him a tour of our office as if he had never seen two desks and a supply closet.
“This is Mommy’s chair.”
“I figured.”
“This is where she gets mad at numbers.”
I closed my eyes.
Alessandro looked delighted.
“What numbers?”
“All of them.”
“Accurate,” I said.
Mia opened the supply closet.
“This is where we keep the good spray.”
Alessandro nodded solemnly.
“Important intelligence.”
She liked him immediately again.
That scared me more than I expected.
Children do not understand parole conditions, power imbalances, or the difference between a man changing and a man being changed forever.
They remember who kneels to tie a shoe.
Who listens to a story twice.
Who lets a Doberman sleep near the kitchen.
After Alessandro left, Mia climbed into my lap.
“Is he staying?”
“Not here.”
“In Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“Forever?”
“I don’t know.”
She frowned.
“You say that a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Adults should know more things.”
I kissed her forehead.
“We pretend.”
That night I understood the real difficulty of Alessandro’s return.
It was not deciding whether I still cared about him.
I did.
It was deciding how to let him become part of our present without allowing his past—or Mia’s affection—to make the decision for me.
May you like
Coffee would be simple.
The life after coffee would not.
