When the sun began to set, I lit a taper and remained. A servant came bearing my father’s request that I come down and sup with him; I refused. I did not want to be reconciled yet. But as I sat in the darkness watching my mother’s profile in the candleglow, I felt a stirring of regret. I was no better than my father; out of love and a desire to protect her, I had permitted my rage to overtake me. When my father had lifted his hand, threatening her—though I did not believe he would actually strike her—I had struck him, and not once, but several times. This, even though I knew our fighting broke my mother’s heart. I was a bad daughter. One of the worst, for I was vengeful and plotting against those who harmed the people I loved. When I was ten, we had a new servant, Evangelia, a stocky woman with black hairs on her chin and a broad red face. When she first witnessed one of my mother’s fits, she proclaimed—like the priest in the Duomo—that my mother was possessed of the Devil and needed prayer.
