Giuseppe Ferrante stood under the station's fluorescent lights in his old wool coat, his hands in his pockets, his posture the patient stillness of a man who'd been waiting for hours without complaint. He smiled the moment he saw me and led me to the car.
Sitting in the passenger seat, I noticed a large bag of my favorite cannoli from Benedetto's and a carton of yogurt waiting for me.
Before starting the car, Dad chuckled softly, grabbing one of the yogurts and poking a straw through the lid, handing it to me. "Here, drink this," he said warmly.
As I took it from him, I noticed the gray hairs at his temples, and something inside me broke.
Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. The way a dam breaks, all at once, the full weight of everything held back for years finding the weakness and pouring through it.
Without warning, I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
The yogurt shook in my hand. The car was dark and smelled like his aftershave and the leather of seats that had carried me to school a lifetime ago, and I was twenty-seven years old and crying like I was seven, and I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop because I was safe, and being safe after years of not being safe is the thing that finally undoes you.
"Dad, I'm home for good this time," I choked out between sobs. "I'm never leaving again. I'm going to stay here with you and Mom. Forever."
Dad chuckled again, this time a little more tenderly. He placed his hand flat on the steering wheel, palm down, fingers spread, and the gesture was so familiar it made me cry harder because it meant he'd already decided. He'd decided the moment he saw my face on the platform. He'd decided before I called. He'd probably decided the day I left.
"You silly girl. Whether you stay or not, you'll always be our precious Olive."
He could tell I wasn't in the best place, but he didn't ask me to explain. He just drove, respecting my silence. The streets of the old neighborhood passed by the window, dark and quiet, the waterfront restaurants shuttered for the night, the fishing boats rocking gently in the harbor. This was Marchetti territory, but it was also just home. My home. The place where Olivia Ferrante existed before the Sloane name had ever touched her.