By the time I placed my hand on Juliet’s breast,
we started to breathe again.
Ice creams for the older girls now 7 and 8.
Aperol and spritz for him.
The first uninterrupted days with my six-month-old baby girl.
By the time we got to Verona,
we had packed up a household grown over three generations in Hong Kong,
leaving only my Harley in storage behind.
By the time we got to Verona, I’d
gifted him grappa in Bassano,
cooked eggplants and aubergine from the market in Padova,
watched my family devour pizzas and pasta in Venice.
Como.
Sirmione.
Bellagio.
Vicenza.
Each a step toward our new home in Portugal.
My oldest Petra is 16 now,
and in love with a boy.
A 16 year old boy we welcomed into our home.
A boy I gave condoms to,
knowing my daughter was not ready,
but unstoppable.
A boy who is not integrating into the structure of my house.
She is heartbroken.
She has lost my blessing.
My head hurts.
My eyes are out of tears.
My hips can’t turn to get out of bed.
My mind is in Verona,
watching her half her lifetime ago,
ice cream smeared across her face,
my hand on Juliet’s breast,
remembering my first lovers,
wishing for hers to be kind.
He texted me:
I had a serious word with Petra this morning.
I told her we both saw how her boyfriend acted over the holidays.
They’re 16, acting like adults but still kids.
She’s been trying to please him, putting herself below him.
And yeah he’s buying her stuff, but he’s undermining the boundaries we set.
Saying things like ‘teenagers need to make their own mistakes.’
He’s basically undermining the stand we’ve taken as parents.
I told her if he wants another shot, he’s got cleaning up to do.
I told her he acted like a total prick during the autumn holidays and she handed over her power.
She didn’t argue. Just listened.
I dropped her at school. When she got out, she said ‘I love you, Daddy.’
There’s nothing for you to do. You were gracious, generous, loving, nurturing.
You do not need to take this on.
Send her to me if she badgers you.
I hearted ❤️ his message.
