Elena helps me unload the groceries, chattering about the chickens she got to see. I set her up with her coloring books, then get to work.
I dice the onions and garlic and sauté them in olive oil until the kitchen smells like heaven. I add the tomatoes, crushing them by hand the way my grandmother taught me. A pinch of sugar to balance the acid. Salt. Pepper. The last of the red wine from the bottle my father opened months ago. Basil from the pot on the windowsill.
The sauce simmers on the stove and fills the house with rich, warm smells. I make fresh bread too, kneading the dough with more force than necessary to work out the nervous energy.
What am I doing? This feels too much like something a wife would do. Too domestic. Too intimate.
But I don't stop.
By evening, everything is ready. The sauce is perfect, rich and fragrant. The bread is cooling on the counter. I've even found a tablecloth, shaken off the dust, and set the table with my father's good dishes.
Elena is drawing at the kitchen table, humming to herself.
"Baby," I say, my heart pounding. "Can you do something for me?"
"What, Mama?"
"Go to the barn and tell Lupo dinner is ready. Tell him I made the red pasta."
Her eyes go wide. "He's eating with us?"
"Yes."
"Inside the house?"
"Yes."
She drops her crayon and runs for the door before I can change my mind. I watch through the window as she races across the yard, her little legs pumping, and disappears into the barn.
A moment later, she emerges with Lupo. He's wiping his hands on a rag, looking confused. Elena is tugging on his arm, chattering excitedly and pointing back at the house.
I turn away from the window, busying myself with the pasta. My hands are shaking.
What if he doesn't want this? What if it's too much, too soon? What if I'm reading everything wrong?
The door opens. Elena bursts in first. "Mama, I got him!"
Lupo follows more slowly. He's cleaned up, washed his face and hands, and tried to brush the sawdust from his clothes. His hair is slightly damp, like he ran it under water. He stops in the doorway and takes in the set table, the food, and the obvious effort.
"Isabella," he says quietly. "You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." I don't look at him, focusing on stirring the pasta. "You said you liked red pasta. I thought... I wanted to make it for you."
The silence stretches too long. I risk a glance at him.
He's staring at the pot on the stove, and there's something in his expression I can't read. Longing, pain, recognition.
"It smells exactly right," he says, his voice rough. "Like... like I remember."
His words please me. "That's good."
"Sit down, Lupo!" Elena commands, climbing into her chair. "Mama made special dinner!"
He moves to the table slowly, like he's not sure this is real. I serve the pasta — generous portions because for once we have enough — and set the bread in the center of the table.
For a moment, we all just sit there. An awkward, makeshift family that feels right.
Then Elena picks up her fork. "I'm hungry!"
