"Buona Sera"

The sound of the Italian language was one of her favourites. For some reason, when I spoke in my mother's native tongue, my beautiful baby girl would giggle happily to herself. When I sang, she would fall into a deep, sound sleep, with that cute smile still playing on her tiny lips. “Buona sera senorina,” I used to say, as I gently left her bedroom door ajar, so we could hear her if she awoke. She was the most wonderful thing.

She was smiling today too, as she introduced us to her boyfriend. He's okay. Nothing special. She asked if he could stay in her room tonight, and I had to think about it. It's been such a long time since she was that giggling baby, but she still seemed that way to me. I decided that I trust her. I nodded. “But you leave the door ajar,” I added, “at least for the first few nights, okay?” I have to let her go some time. I have to let her grow up.

As we walk to our room, I see her door slightly open, just as I'd asked, and I hear her laughing with him. I feel an emptiness – I used to make her laugh. I listen for a moment, knowing that I'm being watched by the love of my life, as I concentrated on our daughter's chatter. I'm not listening to what she's saying, but more the way she's saying it – she's happy. “Buona sera, senorina,” I whisper through the door, blowing a small, pathetic kiss, and we go to bed.