Chapter 16
Clara stopped asking whether I would die after drinking wine.
That took months.
At first, every dinner glass frightened her.
If someone poured red wine, she stared.
If I lifted it, she grabbed my sleeve.
So I stopped drinking wine around her.
No speech.
No lesson.
Just stopped.
Then one evening she noticed.
“Daddy no red?”
“No.”
“Because bad?”
“No.”
Important.
“Because you don’t want.”
She thought.
“Aunt Katherine wine bad.”
“Yes.”
“All wine bad?”
“No.”
I could see the confusion.
Objects become contaminated by memory.
The glass.
The chair.
Christmas dinner.
I did not force separation.
Time did.
At spring dinner, my father’s old friend brought a sealed bottle from his vineyard.
Clara watched.
I poured a small amount.
Did not drink.
“Want to smell?”
She shook her head.
Fine.
Weeks later, she asked.
I let her sniff the glass.
She made a disgusted face.
I laughed.
“Bad.”
“Very.”
She relaxed.
At the next family dinner, I drank one sip.
Clara froze.
I waited.
Nothing happened.
She stared.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
Another minute.
Still okay.
Then she returned to dessert.
Tiny victory.
No applause.
No ceremony.
Fear loses power quietly.
That night, she asked:
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Aunt Katherine lied?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I thought.
“Because she wanted control.”
“What control?”
Hard word.
I simplified.
“She wanted everybody to do what she wanted.”
Clara frowned.
“That’s mean.”
Sometimes entire Mafia histories fit inside a three-year-old’s vocabulary.
May you like
“Yes.”
It was.
