I sighed in relief, grabbing the edges of the apron I wore and pulling it over my head to toss it on the counter. Quickly rinsing my hands off, I patted them dry with a dish towel and made a beeline for the living room.
“Aunt Angela!” my nephew, Jeremiah, called out.
“Hey, sport!” I greeted, giving my little guy a warm hug. When I released him, I held him by the shoulders, examining him. I looked over the cinnamon brown color of his skin, which mirrored his father’s, and the honey-colored eyes he inherited from his mother. Although Jeremiah was only six, his height was in the age range of an eight year old, revealing that he’d likely be tall like both his father and grandfather.
“Hmmm, I think you’ve grown at least three inches since I last saw you,” I joked.
He giggled, displaying his missing front tooth. “You saw me just last weekend.”
I stood, pressing my hand to my chin and giving him the suspicious eye. “Are you sure? It felt like longer than a week.”
“I’m sure! Dad brought me, remember?”
I laughed at the way he looked at me as if I was the one who was the child.
“That’s right, sport. It’s coming back to me now. You made me promise to make your favorite spaghetti and meatballs when you came back, right?”
His little face lit up with pleasure. “Right!”
“You’re in luck, kid. It just so happens I was making my famous spaghetti and meatballs when you showed up.”
“Yes!” he cheered. “Hey, Dad, Aunt Angela made me ’pisghetti!”
“Oh yeah? How about you go wash your hands before you eat your ’pisghetti.” Sean and I both laughed at his joking of his son’s pronunciation. Jeremiah ran down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“What’s up, big brother?” I asked, swatting him with the dish towel I still held in my hand.
“It’s about time you acknowledged me. I’ve been standing here for ten minutes, just being ignored while you butter up my son.”
“Oh shut up.” I pulled him in for a hug. “You’re lucky I acknowledged you at all. How many times do I need to tell you to knock before you come in?”
“Why do I need to knock? You ain’t doing anything in here.”
I turned, hands on my hips. “How do you know?”
“Because I do. Anyway, you knew we were coming over. I figured you’d be in here cooking.”
“Only because I love my nephew. And I know my poor baby probably hasn’t had a home-cooked meal since he was last with his mama.”
Sean waved his hand, dismissing my comment. “Get outta here with all that. I’m working on my cooking skills. I made us some scrambled eggs this morning.”
I frowned.
“The hell is that look about?”
“Poor baby probably has a scratched up throat from all the cracked shells you left in those eggs.”
“Don’t play me, Angela.” He pointed a finger at me, trying to appear stern.
Laughing, I proceeded to the kitchen.
“Smells good in here though. Thanks for hooking my lil’ man up,” Sean stated as he moved farther into the kitchen behind me, toward the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” I turned from my tomato sauce to see my brother leaned over at the waist, head in the fridge.
“Why did you make so many sandwiches? Jeremiah doesn’t like sandwiches,” he stated, ignoring my question. “And why’d you cut up all this fruit?”
“Will you get out of my damn refrigerator with your big head!” I pushed him at the shoulder, forcing him to stand, and shut the door.
