Chapter 14 - THE LIFE BEYOND THE MORETTI NAME
A year after my father's funeral, I moved permanently into the house with the blue door.
I renovated the kitchen.
Painted the bedroom pale green.
Planted roses along the porch.
And began working with a nonprofit organization supporting families affected by organized crime.
The work gave me purpose.
I helped people find legal assistance.
Financial counseling.
Temporary housing.
And the confidence to begin again.
Eleanor visited often.
She brought flowers.
Stories about Daniel.
And photographs of my father as a young man.
Sometimes we sat on the porch for hours.
Talking.
Laughing.
Remembering.
One afternoon, she asked:
“Do you miss Vincent?”
I thought about it.
Then answered:
“Sometimes.”
She nodded.
“That's normal.”
I looked toward the garden.
“I miss who I thought he was.”
Eleanor smiled sadly.
“That's different.”
May you like
I nodded.
“Yes.”
