The morning after I buried Mamma, Mr. Javier dropped me off at LAX. I gripped the one-way plane ticket to Boston he had given me tightly in my hand. Mr. Javier was Mamma's lawyer. He said I was being placed under the custody of a man named Charles Hayes. I had met Mr. Hayes once before at my sixth birthday party.

Mamma told me that he was her buon amico. Good friend. She always spoke to me in a combination of Italian and her heavily-accented English. After the party, she kept nagging at me to remember his name, his phone number, and his address. I remembered feeling annoyed because I didn't like Mr. Hayes. I didn't want to remember anything about him. He hadn't even brought me a present.

Miss Ashleigh was Mamma's personal assistant. She helped me pack as much as I could into my petal pink Hello Kitty suitcases. Mamma bought the whole set for me on our last trip to Tokyo. Miss Ashleigh was a nice lady. I'll miss her.

My plane landed in Logan International Airport on a gray and drizzly afternoon. It was very different from the sunny blue skies that I was used to in California. A balding, big-bellied driver holding a sign with my name on it was waiting for me at the terminal. He helped me into a sleek silver car. We left the airport without saying much. Once we were on the road, there was nothing to do but stare out the window.

I saw rain-slicked streets lined with a mix of old red and brown brick buildings and newer-looking ones made of glass and concrete. The hustle and bustle of the city center slowly turned into rolling hills and green forests as we neared Wellesley. Mr. Javier had told me that Charles Hayes lived in Wellesley. Soon, I'd be living there, too. Big, beautiful houses came into view, and each of those properties displayed a well-kept yard that looked to be the size of a small public park.

A million thoughts raced through my head, but I felt too tired, hungry, and miserable to process them clearly. All I could think about was Mamma and how she was gone. Really gone. My last words with her continued to spin around and around my mind like the world's saddest merry-go-round.

***

Mamma pulled me into a tight embrace and kissed me on both cheeks as she prepared to leave for the airport. "Sii una brava bambina per Mamma, Caterina. I promise to bring you pretty dresses and shoes from Chanel and Gucci when I come back."

"Could you bring me some poetry books instead, mamma? I need to do a project on Emily Dickinson and Maya Angelou for school."

Mamma scrunched up her nose playfully and scoffed, "But why, cuore mio? Poetry is for the dead! Fashion is for the living!"

I giggled at Mamma's silliness even while I protested, "But Mrs. Vikander says our project is due next month, and I want to get a head start on my poetry report. I need to get a better grade than Aaron Nguyen this time. Aaron thinks he's smarter than me. I want to prove him wrong!"

Mamma smiled in amusement. "Very well, my determined little scholar! If it is poetry you want, then it is poetry you shall have..."

***

There were two beautiful leather-bound copies of Emily Dickinson and Maya Angelou's poems tucked inside my Hello Kitty backpack like deadweights. They were now my most prized possessions. The police had discovered them in Mamma's suitcase after they found her body in the hotel room. The officers turned over all of her belongings to Miss Ashleigh, who, in turn, gave them to me.

I kind of knew that Mamma had been sick. Not with the cold or the flu. But with sadness and wine. She drank to feel happier. Yet, even in her final days, Mamma hadn't forgotten about my poems. Mamma always remembered everything I said to her because she loved me. Probably more than she loved herself. That thought alone broke my heart over and over again. Tears pricked my eyes. I refused to cry, though, in front of my driver.

As the minutes dragged on, my heart grew heavier. I felt my eyelids grow heavier as well. I didn't even know what time it was anymore with my jet lag. Eventually, I dozed off. I think I fell asleep for almost an hour. By the time I opened my eyes, the car was pulling into a long private driveway. Pretty trees and bushes with blue and purple flowers lined each side of the winding path, and we drove until we reached a set of heavy gates guarding the entrance. A stately white mansion with black shutters loomed in the distance.

I had never lived anywhere bigger than Mamma's two-bedroom condo in Los Angeles. I tightened my hold on my backpack, not knowing what to expect. The moment we parked at the main entrance, the car door swung open, and a mean-faced woman greeted me with a British-sounding accent. She had on a white shirt that was tucked neatly inside a navy blue pencil skirt, and her graying hair was wound into a tight bun.

"Are you Caterina Donati?" she demanded in a tone that sounded like I had done something wrong.

I nodded cautiously, uncertain of what to say, since the woman didn't seem to like me.

"I'm Mrs. Watson, the housekeeper," she stated briskly, "I see you've taken after your mother in the looks department. Such a shame there's so little of your father in you."

My father?

I paled slightly as I stepped out of the car. "What are you talking about, Mrs. Watson? I don't have a dad. Mamma didn't know who he was."

Mrs. Watson stared at me for a moment. Disbelief settled over her sharp features. "It appears your mother was adept at keeping secrets."

"That's not true," I insisted anxiously. "Mamma and I told each other everything!"

"Is that what you believe?"

"Yes!"

Mrs. Watson sneered. "Don't be foolish, child. Use your brain. Why do you think a man like Charles Hayes would take you in? Out of the kindness of his heart? Ha!"

I met Mrs. Watson's harsh words with a glare of my own. "Charles Hayes isn't my dad."

"Believe what you want. I don't have the patience to argue with you. It's the truth, though."

My stomach felt very nauseous all of a sudden. I just lost Mamma. Now, this woman was telling me that I was no longer alone in the world. She was suggesting that I had another parent. That I had a dad. A dad named Charles Hayes. This should have been happy news, but for some reason I didn't feel good about it. My mind blanked. I didn't know what to say.

"Wipe that stupid look off your face, or I'll do it for you," Mrs. Watson warned as she snatched my suitcases away, "Come with me. I'll show you to your room."

Scowling, I followed Mrs. Watson into the house. My dad's house, supposedly. We moved through a grand foyer with an impressive gold and crystal chandelier that looked like it had been plucked straight from the ballroom scene in Beauty and the Beast. Mrs. Watson guided me up a curved marble staircase to the second floor. After passing through several hallways, we finally stopped in front of one of the smaller bedrooms.

She set down my suitcases and gestured for me to go inside. "Unpack your things. You may sleep here from now on. The cook will have dinner ready in the dining room at six o' clock. Don't be late."

"Will my... d-dad... be there?"

Dad.

I stumbled on the word because it felt so foreign on my tongue.

"Not tonight," Mrs. Watson answered, shaking her head. "Mr. Hayes is away on business. He should return by tomorrow. I suppose you ought to know that Patrick and Bethany will be moving in as well. Their mother wants them to attend Ashton Wellesley. The schools in Texas simply aren't up to par. They fly in from Houston next Tuesday."

I blinked in confusion. "Patrick and Bethany?"

Her blue eyes widened in disbelief once more. "No one has told you about them?"

I shook my head. "Who are they?"

"They're your father's real children from his real marriage. Patrick is the older twin, and Bethany is the younger one."

Feelings of shock and wonderment coursed through me. "I have a brother and sister?"

Maybe we could become friends?

"A half-brother and half-sister," Mrs. Watson corrected sharply, "and before you get your hopes up, I'm afraid the former Mrs. Hayes isn't particularly fond of you, considering how the affair between your father and mother occurred during her pregnancy. I imagine Patrick and Bethany won't want anything to do with you, either. My advice? Stay in your room and stay out of their way."

Her words felt like a slap in the face. I bit my lip to keep from crying and whispered in a small voice, "Don't worry, Mrs. Watson. They won't even know I'm here."