Of course! Here's the corrected version where Rose and her parents are from Italy, not France. The setting remains in Florence, and now her hometown is also within Italy—let's say they're from Bosan, a small fictional Italian town (or we can treat "Bosan" as a rural area in Italy for your story's purpose).
--
Rose adjusted her scarf and checked the train schedule again. The platform in Florence was as busy as ever—backpacks, cameras, tired travelers returning from Milan. But today wasn't just another day. Today, her parents were coming to visit her in Florence for the first time.
She smiled nervously. She hadn't seen them in over a year.
They thought she was building her career at a corporate publishing office in Florence. They didn't know she had quit her job months ago to become a full-time painter. She had kept it from them—hiding behind fake office schedules and made-up stories about editors and deadlines.
The train arrived with a rush of wind and brakes. Moments later, she saw them.
Her mother stepped down first—warm brown coat, grey hair pinned up in a bun. Her father followed, still proud-looking in his navy blue wool jacket, suitcase in hand.
"Rose!" her mother called out.
Mom! she smiled, hugging her tightly. Dàd!, you look tired."
Her father gave a small smile. "Three hours on a train will do that."
Rose led them to her small flat near Santo Spirito. It was a cozy place—neat, light-filled, filled with plants and books. But what they didn't see was the small back room, where all her painting materials were hidden: canvases, unfinished murals, sketches, brushes, and oils—all stuffed behind a curtain.
"I cleaned everything this morning," Rose said with a nervous laugh. "Make yourselves at home."
They settled in comfortably. Her mother made coffee while her father admired the view from the small balcony. That evening, they walked the cobblestone streets and ate fresh pasta by the river. Everything felt warm. Familiar. Easy.
Rose sighed in relief. Maybe she could keep the secret just a bit longer.
The next morning, she woke up to the smell of croissants.
She walked into the kitchen, smiling. "You cooked?"
Her mom laughed. "Just heated up! You had some in the fridge."
Her dad was already seated, scrolling through the news on his phone. Rose's phone, however, buzzed from the living room table.
It rang once, then again.
"Do you want me to pick it up?" her mother asked.
Rose, still brushing her hair in the mirror, called back, "If it's from the office, just tell them I'll call back."
Her mother picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hi, Rose?" came a woman's voice. "This is Bella from the mural project. The gallery team is already here and we need your final sketches by 5. Oh—and your paints, especially that sea green mix you used yesterday. The director loved it."
Her mother's face changed.
"I—I'm not Rose," she said slowly. "I'm her mother."
There was an awkward pause. "Oh… I didn't realize," Bella said. "She didn't mention she was expecting visitors. Well, I just need her to drop by for the final painting session—today's the deadline."
The call ended.
Her father was staring now. "Painting? What gallery?"
Rose came in, freezing when she saw their faces.
"What's going on?" her dad asked sharply.
Rose swallowed. "It was just… a small freelance job. Nothing big."
Her mother crossed her arms. "Don't lie. The woman said it was a mural. A gallery director?"
Rose sat down, knowing the lie had ended.
"I quit my job three years ago" she said quietly. "I couldn't do it anymore. I hated the office, the pressure, the fake conversations.
Her father's expression darkened. "You lied to us."
Her mother whispered, "You said you had a promotion last month."
"I didn't want to disappoint you," Rose said, tears welling up. "You always made it clear that art was a side hobby. I was scared you wouldn't support me."
"You were right," her father said. "We don't. Because it's not a future. It's a risk."
"You think sitting in a cubicle is safer?" Rose snapped. "I'm not a child anymore. This is my life."
But her parents didn't listen. The warmth of the weekend had vanished.
"Pack your things," her father said quietly. "We're going home. Back to Bosan. We'll figure things out there."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You clearly can't take care of yourself. You've been living in a fantasy."
Her mother added, "Maybe after some time back home, you'll see things clearly."
Rose looked around her flat—her little home, her dreams tucked into sketchbooks and canvases. And now, they wanted to pull her away from it all.
But what could she say? Her parents weren't angry—they were hurt, disappointed. And most of all, scared.
So she packed.
Not because she gave up. But because she needed time to think. And because deep down, she still loved them.
The next day, they took the train back to Bosan.
Back to the small town where Rose had grown up with chalk drawings on the courtyard wall. It was quiet. Too quiet.