Chapter 15
The night Angelo Rossini called her his daughter, my bones betrayed me. That wasn’t just ar announcement. It was a verdict. And the execution? That was me remembering everything. Outside, I leaned against the stone wall, lungs burning. My shirt clung to my back. I felt like throwing up.
Loisa’s words were still ringing in my ears.
“Lester… your ma was a Rossini all along. And we treated her like rags.”
Not we.
Me.
I remember the first cut I ever made. I was sixteen. She was smiling at me with two bowls in he hand. She’d made harira. Her favorite. I used to beg her to cook it when I was ten.
But that day?
“Dinner’s ready, habibi,” she said softly. “You’ve been studying so hard-”
I didn’t even sit.
‘I don’t want that peasant food,” I snapped. “You think we’re still in Morocco? You think this house smells nice when you cook that crap?”
She blinked.
Her hands trembled, just a little, as she set the bowls down.
“It’s your favorite,” she whispered. “You used to say it tasted like home.”
“Yeah, when I was stupid. When I didn’t know better.”
Then I added it–the thing I knew would sting the deepest.
‘My real friends? Their moms don’t even touch the kitchen. They’re not maids. They’re… class.”
She swallowed. Smiled through it.
“I’m proud to cook for you. I don’t care if I’m a maid to the world.”
And I just rolled my eyes and walked out.
I heard her crying later. She thought I couldn’t. I did.
But I didn’t care.
***
Then there’s the dinner party.
We had guests. Big ones–Dad’s investors from Russia. The wine was expensive. The plates were porcelain. Everything was perfect. Except her.
She stepped out from the kitchen in a plain navy dress. Simple earrings. Hair tied neatly back.
And my twin boys–my sons–looked at her and laughed.
“Why’s Grandma dressed like a sad waitress?” asked Lyle
“Yeah,” Nash grinned. “She looks like she’s gonna take our orders.”
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I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve told them that’s your grandmother.
Instead?
“She probably is,” I said, sipping my drink. “I should’ve made her wear black.”
Everyone laughed.
Even Loisa.
Even Dad.
She just stood there. Holding the tray. Eyes down. A faint smile she forced out of survival.
Later that night, I saw her outside, taking out the trash. In heels.
Alone.
***
Another flashbacks.
She gave me a box before my wedding. I remember it was wrapped in silver paper with a ribbor so carefully tied.
“It’s nothing grand,” she said shyly. “Just something personal. From your childhood.”
I barely looked at it. Elizabeth–yes, my father’s mistress, sitting right beside me–laughed and nudged me.
“Hope it’s not another ugly tea set.”
I didn’t even defend her. “She hoards junk,” I said casually. “Can’t help it. It’s the maid in her.”
Ma’s smile didn’t drop. It cracked. Like glass.
But she nodded and just left the box on my lap.
Weeks later, Loisa opened it. Inside was a tiny bracelet, gold, with my name engraved in Arabic. I wore it as a baby. She must’ve saved for years to buy it.
I never said thank you.
I don’t think I ever even mentioned it again.
***
And the twin’s birthday…
Big house. Big cake. Inflatable slides. Full–on circus. Everyone came. Even some minor royals. But my mother? She stood in the back. In a beige scarf and plain blouse. Holding a gift wrapped in faded red paper.
Lyle saw her and rolled his eyes. “Why is she here?”
Nash laughed. “Maybe she’s here to clean up the mess.”
I chuckled. Clapped my sons on the back. “She can’t help it,” I said. “She thinks every party needs a servant.”
She didn’t even come inside. Just left the gift on the table and left.
That night, I found it was a scrapbook. Pages and pages of photos she’d kept. Me, my sons, drawings, notes. Little memories no one else remembered.
She even glued the hospital bracelet from when Lyle was born. On the inside flap, she wrote in
Happy Divorce My Husband!
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5:20 am
her neatest handwriting: “No matter how big you grow, you’ll always be my reason to smile.”
I threw it out.
NOW – BACK IN THE PRESENT
My knees hit the ground. People passed. I didn’t care. I wasn’t hiding the tears anymore.
I treated her like nothing. Taught my sons to see her as furniture.
I laughed at her food. I mocked her clothes.
I let my mistress disrespect her.
And now?
She’s Doris Rossini. Heiress to one of the most powerful dynasties in the world. And I’m just the filth on her heel. I remember her stare tonight.
No rage.
No pity.
Just silence. The kind of silence that says: I’ve already buried you. And maybe she had. God knows I deserve it.
I woke up with my heart pounding like I’d been sprinting through fire. Sheets tangled around my legs, mouth dry, shirt soaked in sweat. I sat up fast, head spinning. I could still feel it–that dream. Her eyes. My mother’s eyes.
“I dreamed she looked at me and saw dust.”
Not anger. Not grief. Just dust. Like I didn’t exist.
Like I never did.
I reached for my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Not even a damn bank notification. Checked my email. Spam. Promotions. Nothing from her. I tried calling her cell again. Disconnected. I texted. No blue ticks. No grey ones either. Sent her an email. Checked it twice. Waited five minutes. Then ten. Then an hour. Nothing.
I couldn’t breathe.
So I drove. Didn’t even change clothes. Slid behind the wheel of my Porsche and sped down to her new estate–Rossini estate, of course. Massive gates. Armed security. Black SUVS parked like they were guarding royalty.
And I guess… they were. I stepped out of the car, trying to act like I belonged.
Like I still mattered.
The man at the gate didn’t even blink. He took one look at me and reached for the earpiece in his
ear.
“Name?”
“Lester Vance Morocco. I’m-”
He cut me off with a slight, smug curl of his lip.
“You’re not on the list.”
5:20 am DDDD
“I’m her son.”
The guy looked me over like I’d just said I was the Pope.
“Ms. Rossini said she’s done with you. Don’t come back.”
He didn’t shout. Didn’t get aggressive.
He didn’t need to. That one sentence hit harder than a punch.
sobam
