I heard someone come in but didn't care who it was. Until I heard their voices grow louder, harsher. I snuck out of my room, sat on the top step, and listened.
“We are going to America. A very rich man wants me there, wants me to work for him. He is paying good money, a lot of money, for me and Ginevra.” They were more words than I had heard my father speak in months, and with more strength and determination than in my whole lifetime.
“Who is this man?” Zia Domenica sounded just as determined.
I listened as my father told my aunt of the man who had come to our home before…when mother was still well, or so we thought. I remember the man's clothes, like nothing I had ever seen, a coat and a jacket and a waistcoat, some sort of scarf wrapped intricately around his neck, a hat tall upon his
