| Romance Fiction posted September 19, 2025 | Chapters: |
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Things Begin To Come Together
A chapter in the book Yesterday's Dreams
By The Sea Chap 12
by Begin Again
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The convent was quiet after Compline. Evening prayers were usually a peaceful time for Teresa, but tonight her mind kept slipping from her devotions to the journal. At last, she whispered, "Father, forgive me," made the sign of the cross, and hurried to her room.
She sat at the small table by the window, the journal in front of her. She opened it to the ribboned page, read a line, and closed it. Her hands trembled. She pushed the book away, went to the window, and stared at the sky. She'd lost count of how many nights she'd stood in this spot and asked for answers.
She glanced back at the journal. God had answered, and now fear kept her from the gift. Ashamed, she whispered for forgiveness and returned to the table. With shaking hands, she opened and read the first entry —
April 3, 1939
I met someone whose uniform should have made me turn away. I didn't. He spoke of music he missed, of paintings locked away in Berlin, and of a sister who still wrote to him. His voice was low but guarded, nothing like the orders shouted by soldiers in the square. He was kind.
Her breath caught. A soldier — forbidden. She'd heard what soldiers could do. Her heart ached, yet her mother wrote about music and paintings — things Teresa loved too. Confusion rose as she tried to picture a man with two faces.
She touched the line with one fingertip. "So, this is where you began," she whispered, "and where I began without knowing." She turned the page, and her breath hitched.
March 2, 1940
I can no longer hide it. Elizabeth looks at me and knows, though she has said nothing. A child grows inside me. Fear shadows every thought, but I tell myself that God will not punish her for my sins.
Without thinking, Teresa's hand went to her own stomach. Of course, God would not punish the child — yet shame washed through her, anyway. She had lived her whole life half-believing she was a punishment. Suddenly, she understood what that lie had cost her.
She read on — Maggie's first word, "mama," and the little wooden horse left on the table. Tears stung. She touched the bird. The same hands — his hands — had carved these. Her father's. But — the hands of a German soldier as well.
January 7, 1944
The soldiers are coming. One child I will hide. The other I must carry.
Teresa closed the book and held it. But she opened it again and brushed her eyes dry. Proof lived here in ink. She paused, thinking of another child, one she would never know. She shifted her eyes to the page once more and read —
July 2, 1944
When it was done, they wrapped her and set her in the crook of my arm for one moment — only one. She was warm against my skin. Her hair was dark. Her mouth made a small circle as if to speak. I said her name in my head so no one could take it. I gave her my heart.
She stared at the words until they blurred. In that moment —one minute — she had belonged. Someone had loved her. This woman — her mother — loved her.
August 1, 1944
Pray God keeps my girls safe. They will not see their mother again.
Teresa clasped her hands. "O Father in Heaven, O Merciful One, lift this woman — my mother — into Your arms," she whispered. "Forgive her sins and bless her with eternal life. In thy name I ask this."
She set the journal down and rested the bird on top. She turned off the lamp and lay down. In the dark, she told herself the truth — her prayers had been answered — but she worried over how much it had cost.
*****
Morning light edged over the windowsill. Teresa's eyes were red and swollen. She had prayed and thought until near dawn, trying to take in what she'd read. Now, her mind felt clear enough to speak with Anna.
Morning light edged over the windowsill. Teresa's eyes were red and swollen. She had prayed and thought until near dawn, trying to take in what she'd read. Now, her mind felt clear enough to speak with Anna.
She tied the ribbon around the journal, tucked the carved bird under her arm, and told herself she was ready. For now, she would meet Anna in the garden.
*****
Rosa tapped on the doorframe. "Any sleep?" Her houseguest was dressed, standing on the little balcony.
Anna turned to face her. "A little. Enough."
"What do you want from today?"
"To give Teresa something to call her own — a family."
"You've taken the first steps. Now, we shall see if she, too, is willing to take a step." Rosa sighed. "Come. I will fix a light breakfast, and we shall go to Santa Lucia."
*****
They walked to Santa Lucia while the light spread across the morning sky. At the gate, Rosa squeezed Anna's hand. "I'll wait here by the roses."
Sister Beatrice met Anna inside and tipped her head toward the path. "She's in the garden. May the Lord lay his hands on both of you and give you peace."
*****
Teresa sat on the bench by the fountain. The journal was beside her; the carved bird rested in her lap. "Buongiorno, Anna."
"Buongiorno," Anna said, taking a seat with a bit of space between them. Glancing at the journal, she asked, "Did you read any of it?"
Teresa rubbed the nick in the bird's wing. "I read. It was difficult." She looked away, staring off at nothing at all. Her hand brushed across the journal, and she murmured, "I finished it. I tried to stop. I couldn't."
"Do you want to talk?" Anna asked.
Teresa looked away, thinking. "I've heard we should be careful what we ask for. Now, I understand. I have wanted the truth. When I received it, I broke all my promises to the Lord." She made the sign of the cross and whispered, "I have prayed for His forgiveness."
Anna reached for Teresa's hand and squeezed it. "I'm sure he understands."
Teresa smiled. "Yes, I, too, believe He knows." She lifted the journal and held it against her chest. "I was angry at the risk, at the soldier, at the rules of war. Then, I loved her for telling the truth on paper when she couldn't say it out loud. I was jealous of a child, and a second later, I was grateful she was safe. I didn't know a heart could hold both." She touched the ribbon. "The last line — I had to stand up and walk around the room. I had to pray."
"When I found the journal, I felt many of the same things," Anna said. "Anger, love, fear, jealousy, and gratitude in the same breath. It's messy. It's normal."
Teresa breathed out. "That helps."
"Can I ask something?" Anna said. "Do you want to reach out, or is it enough just knowing the truth?"
Teresa looked down at the bird. "I've been quiet about my feelings for so long, thinking that was what God expected of me. But now He has sent you and given me a gift — a family — and I have to learn to accept this new part of me." She met Anna's eyes. "So yes. I want to reach out. I'm afraid, but I want it."
"What would you like me to tell my mother?"
"My sister in the truest sense. Tell her I'm here. Tell her about the journal. I believe what it says, but will she? Tell her I didn't only find a mother. I found a sister. And I found you, Anna."
Anna's throat tightened. "I'll tell her. She, too, will feel all these emotions. It's a lot to accept."
They sat with the sound of the fountain between them.
"Would you like to pray?" Anna asked.
"Yes," Teresa said, bowing her head. "Thank you, Father Almighty, for giving me a mother and a sister. Give us courage to accept what was and for our tomorrows."
After a moment, Teresa stood. "I should rest."
"Of course," Anna said. "We'll meet tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is good," Teresa said, gathering the journal to her chest and tucking the bird under her arm. "Thank you for coming."
"I'm glad I did," Anna said, and rose.
In the cloister, Rosa fell in beside her. "How was it?"
"Good," Anna said. "She asked that I come again tomorrow."
"Then let's stop for coffee and pastries," Rosa said. "And when you're ready, you call your mother."
"I'm ready," Anna said. "The question is — is she?"
*****
Back at the house, Anna sat on the bed and dialed. She waited nervously as the phone rang, and she heard her mom's voice.
Back at the house, Anna sat on the bed and dialed. She waited nervously as the phone rang, and she heard her mom's voice.
"Mom?"
"At last," Margaret growled. "Anna, I've been waiting to hear you're done with this nonsense. And poor David — he hasn't heard a word. He's heartbroken, Anna. You owe him a call."
"Mom, can you give me five minutes?" Anna pleaded. "Just listen first. Then you can say anything you need."
Margaret paused and then answered, "Five minutes."
"Do you remember the journal I tried to tell you about?"
"I recall something," Margaret snapped. "You're always rummaging through dusty old things. What's so special about this one?"
"It belonged to Sophia Rossi."
Margaret was silent. Only her shallow breathing carried across the line. Finally, she whispered, "So, now you know."
"You knew?" Anna gasped.
"Your grandmother tried — more than once," Margaret said. "I told her not to start. I said it was nonsense. I said, she was my mother, and that was the end of it." A small, rough laugh escaped her mouth. "I had a baby on my hip, a job, a house to keep from falling apart. I told myself if I didn't hear it, it couldn't touch us."
"It touched us anyway," Anna said. "Keeping it quiet didn't make it untrue."
"Don't turn me into the villain," Margaret shot back. "I loved my mother. I protected my life the only way I knew."
"I'm not calling you a villain," Anna said. "I'm telling you what's here."
"What is 'here,' exactly?" Margaret asked. "A notebook someone left in a shop?"
"It's not just the book," Anna said. "It's the Sisters who kept records — the date in the baptism book—" She paused, before saying, "And Teresa."
"Who?"
"Teresa," Anna said gently. "Your sister. She was born on July 2, 1944. She never knew her story — Sophia's story. She read the journal last night. She believes it. And she asked me to tell you she's here."
Margaret's breath shivered once. "And what does she want from me?"
"To meet you," Anna said. "When you're ready. She's trying to be brave."
The line was silent. "David is a good man," Margaret said suddenly, reaching for firm ground. "He has a ring and a steady job and a family who will take you in."
"Mom," Anna said. "Please. This isn't about him right now."
"I don't know this girl," Margaret said, the fight easing. "I don't know what to say to her."
"You don't have to know today," Anna said. "When you're ready, we can go to Sicily together. She's only asking for a chance to meet you."
A soft sob traveled through the line. "Your grandmother tried to tell me last Christmas Eve." Margaret sighed. "Everyone else was at church. She started to say there were things she couldn't say before. I told her to hush and pass the rolls." Margaret coughed and struggled to say more. "If she had said the name, I would have had to choose. I didn't want to choose."
"You don't have to choose against Nonna to tell the truth now," Anna said. "You can honor what she did for you and still let this be real."
"Does the book say my name?"
"It does," Anna said. "Maggie said 'mama' today."
A slight sound — half laugh, half hurt. "She called me Maggie."
"She did."
Margaret exhaled. "I'll think about it. That's all I can promise."
"That's enough," Anna said.
"I'm angry," Margaret said. "At the war, at the secrets, at your grandmother a little, at myself a lot. And I'm curious. I hate that I am."
"It's normal," Anna said. "I feel all of it, too."
"Call me tomorrow," Margaret said. "Or don't, if it suits you. I'll be here."
"I'll call," Anna said. She set the phone down and stayed still, listening to the quiet. It wasn't neat. It wasn't done. But a door had opened, and — for once — no one had closed it.
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