There are days when I miss the “certainty” of my old marriage, even if it was fake certainty. And Marco? He has a habit of humming opera music at 6 AM, which makes me want to throw a shoe at his head. But here’s the difference: he doesn’t demand I love his humming. He just winks and says, “It’s a love song, bella. You’re in it.”
Ironic, right? I walked out of a marriage that looked perfect on paper, only to marry a guy who runs a deli and smells like garlic. But the irony is that my ex-husband was always trying to fix me, while Marco just lets me be broken when I need to be. That’s not a small thing—that’s the whole damn thing.
So, what’s the moral? (Because you know I have one.)
If you’re divorced and scared, stop looking for a partner who checks boxes. Look for someone who asks what’s in your box and then says, “Okay, but let’s add some prosciutto.” The Godfather didn’t save me—he saw me. And that’s way more dangerous, because now I have to actually be seen.
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Also, never date a man who can’t tell you the difference between Pecorino and Parmesan. It’s a red flag disguised as dairy. Trust me, I have receipts.
Last week, I caught myself crying into a bowl of his minestrone. Not sad tears—just overwhelmed, grateful tears. He sat down, pushed the bread basket closer, and said nothing. Nothing. And that, my friends, is how you know you’ve found someone who deserves your scars.
So, yes, I married The Godfather. And if you ever find yourself in his deli, tell him I sent you. He’ll roll his eyes, call me “too dramatic,” and then slip you an extra cannoli. That’s the mafia I’ll pledge allegiance to—the one that feeds you before it asks for anything.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go argue with him about whether the sun is too bright today. He’ll probably fix it with garlic oil. And I’ll probably let him.
