Chapter 15 - Leo Read Sofia’s Notebook
Leo waited until he was eighteen.
We never told him he had to.
The notebooks were preserved.
Digitized.
Restricted.
Recipes included.
Obviously.
On his eighteenth birthday, he asked:
“Can I read Mom’s?”
Dante froze.
I watched.
This was not the same as the letters Enzo once wrote in another family story.
These notebooks contained Sofia’s mind.
Her fear.
Her anger.
Her investigation.
Maybe things about Dante he did not want his son to see.
That did not make them his to control.
Dante answered:
“Yes.”
Then:
“Some sections contain names of people whose privacy still matters.”
Leo nodded.
“So edited?”
“Redacted copies first.”
“Okay.”
No battle.
He spent three days reading.
Not continuously.
He went to school.
Saw friends.
Played basketball badly.
Normal life beside extraordinary history.
Then he called me.
“Aunt Lena?”
“Yes?”
“Can I come over?”
He arrived carrying one printed page.
Sofia’s handwriting reproduced at the top.
She had written:
I love Dante.
That does not mean I trust every part of what loving him activates in him.
Leo sat.
“That’s brutal.”
“Yes.”
“Was she right?”
I thought.
“At the time?”
“Yes.”
He looked down.
“She loved him and was scared of him.”
“Yes.”
“That seems impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
He was quiet.
Then:
“Did Dad know?”
“Not exactly.”
“Should I show him?”
Not my decision.
“What do you want?”
“I don't want to hurt him.”
Danger.
There it was.
The family disease.
Protect someone by controlling what truth reaches them.
I smiled sadly.
“Leo.”
He understood immediately.
“Damn.”
“Language.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Still.”
He laughed.
Then became serious.
“I should let him decide whether he wants to read it.”
“Yes.”
Not:
Make him read.
Not:
Hide it.
Ask.
Dante said yes.
Leo handed him the page.
Dante read.
His face broke.
No defense.
No:
She misunderstood me.
No:
I was changing.
Just grief.
Then he said:
“She was right.”
Leo’s eyes filled.
“Does that hurt?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish I didn't show you?”
Dante looked at him.
“No.”
Important.
Later, Leo found something else.
Sofia had written about me.
Alina.
My sister I do not know exists yet.
No name.
No certainty.
Just suspicion.
Rosalia had once mentioned another baby during an argument with Carlo.
Sofia had written:
If there is another daughter, I hope she grows up boring.
I laughed so hard I cried.
Leo too.
“Did you?”
“What?”
“Grow up boring?”
“No.”
“Unfortunate.”
“Rude.”
Then another line:
If I ever find her, I need to remember that finding someone does not give me the right to become the center of their story.
I stopped laughing.
That was Sofia.
Even in absence.
She understood boundaries before our family knew how to say the word without sounding threatened.
Leo touched the paper.
“Would she have liked me?”
Dangerous question.
I refused mythology.
“I don’t know.”
He looked disappointed.
“I think she would have loved you.”
“That’s different?”
“Yes.”
People can love someone and still be annoyed by them.
Ask every family.
He smiled.
“Dad says I leave glasses everywhere.”
“You do.”
“Mom probably would've hated that.”
“Likely.”
Good.
Keep the dead human.
Not saints.
Not symbols.
That summer, Leo graduated high school.
He chose college in Chicago.
Not Boston.
Dante pretended not to be devastated.
Failed.
Leo wanted to study forensic accounting and public policy.
Everyone reacted.
Mom cried.
I laughed.
Dante said:
“Your mother would have found that suspiciously specific.”
Leo smiled.
“Maybe.”
Then:
“It isn't because of her.”
Good.
Maybe influenced.
Not obligated.
He left.
Dante stood beside me after the car disappeared.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
May you like
He glared.
Some traditions survived.
