"It's just dishes, Mamma," I say, the familiar argument as comfortable as an old sweater. "Everyone eats, everyone can clean."
She makes a "tsk" sound but doesn't push further, seemingly pleased to have me in her domain for a while longer.
We work quietly together for a few minutes, with football sounds coming from the den. My father yells now and then, his voice mixing with the splashing of dishes in the sink.
"How are your classes, Sebastiano?" my mamma asks, her voice casual, which immediately puts me on alert.
"Fine," I answer automatically. "Busy."
"And the medical school applications? You are going ahead with this plan, yes? You have chosen where to apply?"
I freeze, a half-washed plate in my hand. "How did you?—"
My sisters both snort in unison.
"Mamma knows everything," Gabi says, not looking up from the pot she's drying.
"Everything," Sophia echoes, one hand on her pregnant belly.
Mamma takes the plate from my stunned fingers and continues washing as if she hasn't just revealed she knows one of the things I've hidden from them.
I never told them I was going to med school next year.I haven't told anyone that I've already applied to a cardiac program in Europe.
"I... I haven't decided yet," I stammer. "There are several good programs, but it depends on..."
"Johns Hopkins is the best," my mamma states with authority. "Or Stanford. You should go to the best, but not so far away."
I stare at her, my brain trying to catch up with what's happening. "You've... researched medical schools?"
She gives me a look that is both offended and pitying. "You think I don't know my own son? I don't see how your eyes light up when you talk about medicine. That I don’t see the anatomy books under your bed when I visit your apartment?"
"You look under my bed?" Horror floods my voice at the idea. Every muscle in my body locks up as I cycle through what else might be under there.
Behind me, Sophia snorts so hard she chokes. Gabi's already wheezing, slapping the counter. "Mamma still checks?—"
"I'm your mamma. I clean," she says simply, but I swear there's a bit of mischief in her eyes.
"But Papa thinks?—"
"Your Papa thinks what he wants to think," she interrupts, handing me another plate. "He built his business from nothing. He wants his only son to carry it forward."
"But what about Gabi and Sophia?" I ask, genuinely confused. "They're already running half the company between them."
A heavy silence falls over the kitchen.
"When will Papa stop asking when I'm coming to work for him?" I ask the question directed at no one in particular.
My sisters exchange glances, and my mamma sighs deeply, her hands stilling in the soapy water.
"Your Papa is..." she pauses, searching for the right words, "well, your Papa. He will figure it out eventually."
She dries her hands on a dish towel, then reaches out to pat my cheek, then Gabi's, then Sophia's. "I have tried to talk to him, but he needs to figure it out on his own."
"So, never," Gabi mutters.
"He will get it soon," Mamma says with more confidence than her expression suggests. She turns back to me. "Now, about those medical schools. I have made a list."
She pulls a folded piece of paper from her apron pocket and hands it to me. It's damp at the edges from the dishwasher, but I can make out her neat handwriting listing medical schools in what appears to be order of preference by how close they are to home. The notes about their specialties come second.
