You Would Never Know

I | I'm Coming Home

The sounds of chatter, clinking glasses, and footsteps were heard in the room. In an event like this, you'd expect to feel fulfilled or joyous, not absolutely distasteful of your surroundings.

"Goodness, where have you been, Bernardi?" An irritating voice, almost like nails dragging on a chalkboard, yelled, causing me to halt my raging thoughts. Of all people, of course it had to be her.

"I've always been here, Isabella," I said, wishing I'd found a better hiding spot in this gallery to avoid any interactions with this old hag. She laughed, clearly not understanding what my tone was implying.

Trust me, if you were to deal with someone who does all they can to badmouth people and flaunt their wealth to feel superior, they would then proceed to talk about how important it is to remain humble and loyal to the people you're working with. Just for them to flirt with women a few seconds later, mid-conversation, totally ignoring their husband's existence, you'd feel and act just like me, if not worse.

She's a great director, and I love her openness about things, but could you respect your surroundings, or at least your poor husband, who's literally tearing up in the corner right now looking at you? He probably thinks she's flirting with me, for God's sake.

"Come join us. We'll have a lot of fun together at the afterparty, and we'll get to celebrate your success together. What do you think?" Again, with the afterparties and fake laughter, is this really what I signed up for? I'm sure sixteen-year-old Dali would've hated this.

My eyes observed the room, and I saw my paintings hung on the wall; I saw people I worked with; I saw people who weren't even interested in art but came here to flaunt their wealth; but I didn't see anyone I cherished.

And at that moment, I realized I had succeeded in every aspect of my life except one: my private life is just the same as it was eight years ago.

I looked Isabella in the eyes, hugged her, and simply left. She's indeed irritating, but thanks to her irritating voice, I finally did what I'd been wanting to do, which was to go back to Italy, where everything started.

The sound of the pilot speaking when we arrived woke me up, and there's no denying that I'm grumpy because, considering my insomnia and the jet lag I'm going to get later, I won't experience such peaceful sleep for a while.

I waited for my ride to arrive, knowing he'd get out of his way to see me as soon as possible once I stepped into Italy, so I didn't bother to drive or order a ride.

There he is, the wrinkly old man with a beer belly and a heart of gold. I ran up to him and hugged his huge form as much as I could. "If it's not my favorite old man," Pablo picked me up and swung me side to side. Something he always did, ever since I was a kid, brought me instant comfort.

"Before we go home, can we stop by a flower shop? Or Mamma will kill me if I arrive empty-handed after all this time away." He laughed and nodded as he guided me to the car. I wouldn't call my mom an aggressive person, but maybe an aggressively loving person is the best way to put it.

Moving to London at sixteen and leaving the family estate was one of the most impulsive decisions of my life due to the fact that it was made at the worst possible time. It was easy to convince my mom, considering she studied there, and having her stamp of approval made it easier for me to leave everything behind.

Peonies were my favorite, and after a heated debate with my Mamma about how they are superior to the classic red roses, I won. They became her favorite, and I made it my mission to give her peonies from then on. After all this time, all I hope is that they are still her favorites and that she won't stay mad at me for long.