✨ Eighteen...✨

(AUTHOR'S POV)

Maria’s hazel eyes were shut, lashes resting like quiet shadows against her cheeks. In the pale wash of dawn, her fair skin held a warmth that the night hadn’t stolen away. Strands of dark black hair spilled across the pillow, catching the early light in soft copper glints.

She lay still, the rise and fall of her breathing unhurried, a faint curve to her lips as if some gentle dream lingered. Even in sleep, there was something disarmingly open about her — the kind of light that made people softer just by being near.

She woke up with mother and brother's everyday banter, the same chirping of birds, the same breeze swaying her beige curtains. But something was different today she was 18 years old today, 18 years in this world today, a woman now. She got up after a while, wore her pink robe with white lilies on it around her and twirled in it giggling, then went downstairs, the voices of her mother and brother grew higher-

"It was for her, you brat!" a voice came from the living room -her mother's- and in the living room stood,48-years-old Elena Rossetti stood, charming as ever in her white maxi dress, sleeves rolled up, a wooden spatula in one hand and other hand on her hip, her hazel eyes -which Maria inherited- soft and warm, and infront of her stood Maria's elder brother,her protector, her guardian, her companion in mischief and partner in stealing cookies at midnight,- Luciano Rossetti- "It's her birthday l'm just making sure it's not poisoned.",he countered with all the energy of a 22-year-old man, in his black trousers and white t-shirt, brown hair tousled from sleep, a cocky grin on his face and a slice of strawberry cake in his hand.

MARIA (gaining their attention)

"Is that why you ate half my cake?"

ELENA(cupping her face , smiling)

"Maria! Happy Birthday,my heart. Slept well?"

MARIA

"Yes Mama"

LUCIANO(popping in)

"18 now, huh? Time to start acting like an adult."

MARIA(smirking,she took fistfull of cake and smashed it on his face)

"Says the man who cried when Nonna (grandmother) took his football away"

Elena gasped.

LUCIANO (wiping frosting off his face)

"You're dead! I swear to God, you're dead!"

She started running and he chased her,both laughing. They collapsed onto the couch laughing so hard that their stomachs hurt.

Elena told them to come to the dining table.

They sat together — just the three of them — around the small wooden table that had seen laughter, arguments, and every kind of love spilled across it. Elena wanted today to be just hers and Maria’s, and Luciano's- just family.

ELENA(suddenly spoke, while slicing the cake she managed to save from their cake war)

"You know what Papa would say?"

LUCIANO(groaning)

"Here it comes"

MARIA(smiling)

"Let her say it"

ELENA(raised an eyebrow, smirking)

"‘Eighteen is when a girl stops being a petal and starts choosing who she bleeds for."'

MARIA(laughing)

"That's so dramatic"

ELENA(softly, while setting a slice of cake in front of her)

"That's your father and that's you,too"

LUCIANO(leaning in mock- serious)

"Just don’t bleed for anyone who can’t sew, yeah?”

Maria threw a crumb at him.

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(MARIA'S POV)

The afternoon sun was lazy, spilling over the courtyard where vines curled along the old brick walls. After lunch, Luciano had dragged me outside, claiming “a birthday girl shouldn’t be indoors.”

He was leaning against the low wall, fiddling with something in his hand. I squinted at him.

“You’ve been acting suspicious since morning.”

“It’s called being charming,” he said, but there was a strange softness in his smile. “Here.”

He held out a small box. I took it, eyebrows lifting. “If it’s cake again—”

“Just open it, Maria.”

Inside lay a silver locket, delicate but sturdy, the metal warm from his palm. Etched into its surface was a tiny olive branch. I traced it with my thumb.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It was Mama’s,” he said. “Before she gave it to me. And now… you.”

I opened it — inside, a faded photo of our family, before the empty chair at the table. My chest ached in a way I couldn’t name.

“Luciano…”

“You’re grown now,” he said quietly. “But grown doesn’t mean alone. Remember that.”

Before I could reply, the crunch of tires on gravel cut through the stillness. A black car pulled up outside the gate. I didn’t recognize it.

Luciano’s smile slipped for just a second — barely enough to notice. He straightened, glancing back toward the kitchen window where Mama was watching. Her hands were still in the dishwater, but her shoulders had gone tense.

A man in a dark suit stepped out of the car. He didn’t look at me, just at Luciano.

“They need you.”

Luciano sighed like it was nothing, but I caught the shadow in his eyes.

“Go inside, piccola,” he told me, brushing his hand over my hair as he passed. “I’ll be back before dinner.”

I clutched his hand,"Do you have to go on my birthday too?"

Mama came to me,"Don't worry sweetheart,he said he'll be back before dinner, he always keeps his promises."

I looked at him and he kissed my head and the said the same line l've been listening to from years, everytime from his mouth whenever he goes out -"l promise l will come back."

And l let go off his hand believing him like l've been since childhood.

But Mama's gaze stayed fixed on the gate long after the car disappeared.

I’d seen that look before — the way Mama’s jaw set, the way she pretended nothing was wrong. It had been like this for as long as I could remember.

When I was little, it was Papa who would vanish into the night. No explanations, just the smell of his cologne lingering in the hallway and the quiet click of the door. Mama never spoke of it, but I wasn’t stupid. I saw the envelopes he’d lock away, the men who called him Signore with too much respect in their eyes.

Over the years, I noticed the pattern shift. Papa started taking Luciano with him, at first just for “errands.” A year or two later, Papa was gone — no warning, no reason that made sense. They told me it was an accident. But they never told me why Luciano came back from the funeral with a harder stare, or why, not long after, the same men started coming for him instead.

Mama finally broke her gaze from the gate, blinking as if waking from a dream. I offered her the locket, but she shook her head.

“It’s yours now, Maria. Wear it.”

So I did.

That evening, I hummed while setting the table, filling the kitchen with the scent of garlic and tomatoes. The light was fading outside, the first stars curling over the horizon. For a while, it was just me and Mama, clattering plates and trading quiet jokes.

When Luciano came back, later than he promised, his shirt was rumpled and his smile a little forced. I didn’t ask. Instead, I grabbed his hand and pulled him to his chair.

“Sit. Eat. It’s my birthday and I’m not cutting the cake twice.”

He laughed — a real laugh, one that loosened something in Mama’s shoulders. And in that moment, I thought that whatever shadows crept through our door, I could chase them away.

“Diciotto anni,” Mama murmured before wishing us good night. “E ancora sei la mia bambina.”

(Eighteen years old. And still my little girl)

"Always Mama", l leaned into her touch.

At eighteen, I still believed I could keep the light burning.

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