Then she nods with no particular expression. "Very good."
"Pheww," I say, a desperate smile tugging at my mouth.
"You see?" She smiles too, briefly. "You follow instructions, nothing goes wrong. Mara—she never listens. Always stubborn."
Like her other child.
"Did your mother teach you to cook?" she asks, stuffing bread into the toaster.
Mentioning my mom causes my mood to falter a little.
"Not really," I mutter. "She's good at it. Makes incredible waffles actually, but... we never did much together."
"Why not?" she asks bluntly.
"She is complicated. Honestly, it was probably better we didn't do much together."
Carmela frowns when she hears my sad tone.
"Okay," she says and grabs a jar of honey from behind my shoulder.
She scoops a generous spoonful and hands it to me.
"Here—honey helps with everything. I used to do this with Mara and Ben when they were small. Always made them feel better."
"That's nice," I say, putting the spoon in my mouth, and for some reason, my throat goes tight. Maybe because for a moment she feels like the mom I should've had.
"What about your grandparents?" she asks, reaching up to the cabinet. Plates come down with a soft clink, her hands moving fast as she spreads them on the dining table in the kitchen.
I shake my head, sucking on the spoon. "None, really. My dad lost his parents young, and my mom barely tolerated hers. I saw them once a year. I wish I had any. I think kids who grow up with grandparents carry something different. That kind of bone-deep love."
"Very true. Nonna spoiled both of them. Too much." Carmela pauses mid-wipe of a plate, her gaze softening a notch. "You know, Ben told me about your mother."
"Oh." I pause, then put the spoon carefully in the sink.
She starts wiping again, pretending to be casual. "He told me your mother made you very sad."
I draw in a breath and try to sound neutral. "I guess you could say that."
She finishes putting out the cutlery, sits, and looks at me with sudden sympathy.
"We cannot choose our parents, or our children. We can only love the best we can," she says, her voice softer than usual.
"When Antonio and I came to America, I brought my parents. They were gold. But his?" A sharp shake of her head. "His father was cruel. Alcoholic. Abusive. His mother weak. Didn't want to leave him. So Antonio came without them. Even we, who worship family, have limits. Love must be equal. Pride too."
"Love must be equal, pride too," I echo, nodding, hoping those words stay in my head forever. "I actually love that."
She smiles suddenly, unexpectedly girlish, like someone's peeled back the years. "The way you look at my son? You remind me of me. When I met Antonio.Oh...Love like from a movie. Ithought, ah, Madonna, I'm marrying this man. But now—" her smile turns sly, "—must make him think it's his idea."
We both laugh, and her eyes glimmer. It's obvious that forty years later, she's still swooning for him.
"But what you two did?" Carmela frowns and swats the air. "Terrible. Stupid. I should smack you both."
I wince and lower my gaze, then nod. "We feel bad about it. I know he does."
"I know," she cuts in, firm."I know my son. He is a good man. Never once cheated in school. Always spoke the truth even when it cost him. So if he has risked all this..." She looks at me square. "It means he loves you very much."
The reservation in her eyes slips away for a beat, but her expression is still heavy.
