Chapter 1
All my life, people have told me my childhood was sad, and that it’s “amazing” how well I grew up—or grew out of it. It used to bother me, but eventually, I realized that no one really cares about what actually happened. It’s easier to just smile and agree.
It took my mum four long years to fight for me. By the time she finally got through all the legalities and adopted me, I was already eight years old. She was an English teacher at one of the international British schools in Rome. Born in America to an Italian family, she had moved back to Rome to be close to her relatives. In her early twenties, she became a teacher—she had always loved children but couldn’t have any of her own. Even as a kid, I knew my mother was a loving but lonely woman. There was always a quiet sadness about her, like someone had broken her heart long before she found me.
I don’t remember much about the day I was left behind—only that my biological mother kissed me goodbye, tears streaming down her face, before she walked away.
When my mum found me, I wasn’t scared or surprised. I was told the first thing I asked her was if she was the “auntie” I was supposed to live with now.
Over the years, I’ve pieced together bits and pieces of that morning. It was a Saturday, and I had been sitting on the stone staircase next to the school’s iron gate when she saw me. To this day, I believe my biological mother knew exactly who would find me. Maybe she had once been a student there. Maybe she somehow knew my mum’s schedule.
I was clean and simply dressed, clutching a teddy bear in one arm and an oversized backpack that was nearly half my size. I was skinny, undernourished, but clearly cared for. My long, wavy, dark-red hair was almost startling against my sickly pale skin and my olive-and-white checkered dress, paired with a navy cardigan. Inside the backpack were all my small, limited belongings.
Mum took me inside the school, made me a sandwich, slipped me a chocolate bar, poured a hot cup of tea, and read to me while we waited for the police. By the time the officer arrived, I was warm, full, and half-asleep in her arms.
I still don’t know how she convinced the police to let me stay with her, but that was the beginning of a very long journey toward adoption.
For the next four years, Mum juggled three full-time roles: English teacher, part-time lawyer—because she handled much of the legal work herself—and, most importantly, mum. I was lucky every step of the way. I got to attend her school and receive an education most kids could only dream of. We lived in a cozy one-bedroom apartment across from a park. Every morning, we had breakfast together before school, and on weekends, we explored parks, cafés, libraries, and museums.
To Mum’s delight, I quickly fell in love with reading. Since I often had to wait for her after school, I spent hours in the library devouring book after book. My sharp memory made me a favorite among the teachers.
When, at eight years old, I was officially adopted and became Eleanor D’Angelo—daughter of the most stubborn Italian woman alive, Valentina—not much really changed. Everyone already saw me as her daughter long before it was official.
When Mum received an offer to move back to the U.S. to work as an Italian tutor for children from her school, we packed up and crossed the ocean to meet the American side of our family.
As a kid, I loved living in the States. For the first time, I didn’t stand out because of my pale skin and red hair. What was supposed to be a temporary move ended up changing everything—it’s what led Mum to finally find the love she had been waiting for.
I was twelve when I had an accident on the basketball court and ended up in the hospital. I’d fallen, hit my head on the concrete, and lost consciousness. Luckily, my friend Izzy’s uncle had been nearby. He rushed us to the hospital, calling Mum on the way.
She arrived frantic—overwhelmed and speaking in a wild mix of Italian and English. The nurses couldn’t understand her, which only made her louder and more emotional. By the time security was called to deal with the “aggressive woman,” she was ready to knock someone out if it meant finding me. If it hadn’t been for Izzy and her uncle stepping in, she probably would have.
Mum and Dad still love telling the story of that first meeting—how she hated him at first sight, calling him stiff, cold, and unbearably polite. No one could have predicted that they’d end up together... or that Izzy and I would become sisters in crime.
