massimo
My name is Isabella. I live with Massimo — a man who never raises his voice, because he doesn’t need to. Everything about him commands: his eyes, his footsteps, the silence between two words. My children? He never calls them by their names. He says: “Silence them,” “Move them away,” “Take them out of my sight.” This morning, Michel dragged his feet from exhaustion. Juice spilled on the table. Massimo looked at him with hollow eyes, then turned to me: "If you truly belonged to me… you wouldn’t have birthed them." I held Michel close. Massimo stepped behind me, hand tightening on my shoulder like a silent chain. He whispered, "I want all of you… not pieces scattered between them." His voice was low—quiet enough to haunt. Sophia had drawn me on paper, a little crown on my head, the words “Mama, my queen.” She showed it with a smile. Massimo took the paper, tore it in two, and said: "You are mine alone. Not a mother. Not a queen. Just... mine." I breathe by his permission. I speak on
About massimo
My name is Isabella. I live with Massimo — a man who never raises his voice, because he doesn’t need to. Everything about him commands: his eyes, his footsteps, the silence between two words. My children? He never calls them by their names. He says: “Silence them,” “Move them away,” “Take them out of my sight.” This morning, Michel dragged his...Read more