"Smart girl," my father nods approvingly, and Gabi practically glows. His approval is rare currency in our household.
I take another bite of lasagna, waiting for the inevitable pivot in conversation.Three, two, one...
"We could use another Moretti on the team for a project this size," he says, looking directly at me. "When are you done with these classes, Sebastian? Summer?"
And there it is.
"I'm still working on my degree, Dad," I say carefully, keeping my tone even and deliberately vague.
He waves his fork dismissively, a piece of meatball dangerously close to becoming airborne. "More tuition? For what? To work for some company that will own you?"
"To finish what I started," I say with forced patience. "We've discussed this."
"Books," he snorts. "They charge too much for these degrees and still don't teach you what you need to know. When your Cousin Palo needed to learn plumbing for the family business, did he go to college? No! He apprenticed under old man Ricci and learned more in six months than these professors teach you in four years."
"And look at doctors," he continues, building momentum. "They charge too much and still can't fix half of what's wrong with people. When your Uncle Vito had his heart attack, what did those fancy doctors do? Nothing that his garlic and red wine hadn't been doing for years."
My mamma crosses herself quickly. "God rest his soul."
"God rest his soul," my sisters echo automatically.
I remain silent, having long ago given up explaining that preventative medicine and emergency cardiac care are not the same thing, or that Uncle Vito might still be alive if he'd followed his doctor's advice about his diet.
"The business is good, Sebastian," my father continues, undeterred. "We build things. Real things you can touch that last. Not like these..." he gestures vaguely, "papers and theories you study."
He's gathering steam now, and I glance longingly at the door. "I built this business with these hands." He holds up his calloused palms, the permanent half-moon of dirt under his nails a badge of honour he's worn since emigrating from Sicily at sixteen. "Started with nothing but a hammer and determination. Now look at us!"
I've heard this speech so many times I could recite it from memory.Started with nothing. Hammer and determination. America, land of opportunity. Hard work and sacrifice. Building a legacy for his children.The specific words change, but the message remains constant: Why would I choose anything other than the family business?
"The lasagna is excellent, Mamma," I say, deliberately changing the subject.
"New basil in the sauce," she says, pleased. "From the garden."
My father, momentarily derailed, takes another large bite. "Best in the neighbourhood."
The conversation shifts to safer territory: Sophia's pregnancy, a problem with one of the construction-site managers, and neighbourhood gossip about the Palmieris' son finally getting married. "At thirty-five! His poor mother!"
Thirty-five and unmarried was tragedy enough. Thirty-five and gay? At least he's marrying a woman. What would Ma say? "My Sebastian, he brings home a nice doctor... named William."
I nod at appropriate intervals, offer brief comments when required, and focus on eating enough to satisfy my mamma without making myself sick.
After dinner, I automatically follow my mamma and sisters into the kitchen, gathering plates as I go.
"Sebastian, leave those!" my father calls. "The game is starting. Sophia, your husband is already in the den."
Sophia's husband, Rick, a quiet accountant who looks perpetually terrified of my father, offers me a small wave from the doorway. Gabi doesn't have a husband; instead, a rotating cast of boyfriends, none of whom last long enough to earn dinner invitations.
"I'll help Mamma, Papa," I say, continuing to stack dishes.
He makes a disapproving sound. "Football’s starting. The university team is doing an exhibition with State. It's a big game."
"You go ahead," I answer. "I'll be in after we finish."
He mutters quietly in Sicilian so I don't fully catch it but it sounds suspiciously like "not right" before disappearing into the den.
In the kitchen, my Mamma has already filled the sink with soapy water. My sisters flank her, one drying, one putting away, moving with the smooth rhythm of ladies who've done this a thousand times.
"You don't have to help, Sebastiano," my mamma says, even as she hands me a sponge. "This is women's work."
