Thisis my childhood and I’m proud to share it with my girl.
The door swings open before I knock. Matteo stands there, broad and composed in his usual lawyer-calm, eldest-son surety. He gives me a long, meaningful look, then turns to Rosa.
“So,” he smiles as he takes her hand, “you’re the woman responsible for my brother disappearing off the grid.”
Rosa giggles. “I’m pretty sure he responds to texts.Eventually.”
Matteo holds her gaze a beat longer than strictly necessary, reading her. I watch his expression shift. Approval. Respect.Curiosity.
Good.
We move inside. My mother’s in the kitchen, stirring the paella. She looks up and wipes her hands before crossing the tiled floor with arms outstretched.
“La meva nena estimada,” she says in Catalan. “Ets molt benvingut en aquesta casa.”
She kisses both of Rosa’s cheeks. Rosa replies back perfectly, not showy, but fluent, and my mother’s brows lift with pleased surprise.
My heart fills with joy.
Matteo’s wife, Sofía, arrives with their kids, Mateo Jr., nine, and Clara, six. Sofía is sharp and elegant, her energy calm in the middle of their noise. The kids make themselves at home right away. Junior pulls Rosa toward the shelves to show her photos from his soccer season, while Clara climbs into her lap and starts weaving her fingers through Rosa’s hair.
Rosa lets her. No hesitation. No discomfort.
When Sofía joins them, Rosa leans in to compliment her gold hoop earrings. A gesture so simple and sincere I watch how quickly she’s pulled into Rosa’s orbit.
I knew they’d love her, but Rosa fits here better than I could have imagined. Effortlessly.
We eat on the terrace with the sun setting behind us. Ma lifts her glass, eyes shining in the soft light. “To your father, Gabriel. He would have lovedthis day.”
We all raise our glasses. The clink is small but full.
The paella sits at the center of the table, golden rice studded with shrimp and mussels, the edges crisp where the pan met the flame.
Rosa takes her first bite unhurriedly, eyes closing as she tastes. “It reminds me of my father,” she says after a moment. “He used to cook on Sundays. Nothing fancy, but the house smelled like this.”
Ma reaches across and touches her hand. “Then you understand. Food is love made visible.”
Rosa nods, eyes soft, voice low. “Exactly.”
Later, after the dishes are cleared and washed, I find myself on the balcony alone with my mother. She stands with her back to the city, the lights of Barcelona glittering behind her like a quiet truth.
“She loves you,” she says without preamble.
I blink. “Yes—”
“It’s written all over her. In the way she listens. In the way she looks at you when you’re not speaking.”
I say nothing.
Then she turns fully, eyes narrowing in the way only mothers can manage. “She’s the one, isn’t she?”
It’s not a question.
I stare past her at the city streets I grew up on. The squares I used to play in, the hills we’llclimb together one day. I see Rosa in all of it now. Her laughter in Gràcia. Her wonder in Cadaqués. Her joy stitched into every place we’ve touched.
“Yes,” I say. “She is.”
My mother doesn’t smile. She steps forward and kisses my forehead like she used to when I was small.
