Chapter 13 - My family history
Sofia’s name was difficult for me to discuss.
She died when I was fifteen.
My father, Carlo Romano, could intimidate union men and politicians.
He could not save his daughter.
He hated hospitals because hospitals did not care who he was.
Doctors said:
Wait.
He waited.
Test results took time.
He waited.
Sofia needed blood products.
He could not command the marrow to behave differently.
For a man addicted to control, medicine was unbearable.
After Sofia died, he became worse.
More violent.
More certain that power had to compensate for helplessness.
I learned from him.
For years I believed being feared meant fewer people could hurt what I loved.
Then a drunk driver nearly killed me without knowing my name.
Then a hotel manager moved my wheelchair because he did not know my face.
Power is not a force field.
Maeve’s fifty-one cents did something humiliatingly simple.
It reminded me that dignity is often determined by what people do when they believe you have nothing to offer them.
Dominic thought I was powerless.
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That was why his behavior mattered even before we found the money.
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