Lisette
“Mon chou,pick up your socks, please. Your aunt will be here soon!”
Cheers come from the television as Liverpool scores a goal. My son slides off the sofa and sinks to his knees. “No! Offside! Offside!”
“Mateen,” I call.
“Maman, the match only has thirty seconds left!”
His whine should grate on me, but he has only recently started calling me “maman” rather than “mama” and the change warms my heart. Even if he is only doing it because that is what his best friend callshismother.
At my sister’s brisk knock, I lean over the breakfast bar to peer into the main room. “Now, young man. Or I will turn off the internet for the rest of the day.”
He huffs, swipes the dirty socks off the floor, and stomps up the stairs to his room.
When I open the door, Noele thrusts a covered, cast iron pan at me. “Thirty minutes at two hundred degrees. Start it now, so the champagne does not go to our heads.”
“Bonjour to you as well,mon petite fleur.”I love my sister dearly, but she treats me as if I am a broken doll, even now.
A flush creeps up her neck, and she leans in to kiss me on each cheek. “Je suis désolé,Lisette. It has been a long week, and the bride I met with today wants to get married atDomaine du Beyssacin less than six months!”
“Did you tell her to pray for a miracle?” Peeking under the lid, I smile. Noele’s cassoulet is better than our mother’s, and I dreamed of Maman’s cooking for years while I was…gone.
“She would have found a new wedding planner.” Noele pulls the bottle of champagne from the refrigerator and gives the muselet ring six quick turns. With a few twists of the bottle, the cork pops free. “Where is my nephew?”
“Sulking in his room after I made him miss the end of the football match.” I slide two glasses across the counter and call for Mateen.
“Tantine!” he shouts as he skids down the stairs. “What did you make for us?”
Throwing his arms around my sister, he lowers his voice. “Maman tried to make quiche last night and it was terrible.”
“Mateen!” My cheeks catch fire. “It was not that bad.”
“It was,” he whispers. “She burned it.”
I pick up the glass of champagne and stalk out to the patio. The rain earlier in the week left everything fresh and clean, and my plants are thriving. Brushing my fingers over an orchid blossom, I stare at the city spread out in the distance.
My son is not wrong. I am a terrible cook. I mastered corn dogs in Boston. Mac and cheese. Even pizza. But French cooking eludes me. Maman tried to teach me how to bake bread over the summer, but my attempts all stubbornly refused to rise.
“I told Mateen he could play video games until dinner,” Noele says as she slips out the door to join me.
“He has been disagreeable all week.” Stress weighs on my shoulders. The tiny bubbles dancing over my tongue bring only the barest hint of a smile. Every Saturday, Noele drives an hour from Carcassonne—with dinner—we enjoy a bottle of wine or champagne and catch up on bits and pieces of our lives. “Philippe’s mother says all children are overwhelmed when they start school, and that it will pass. But it is hard. I miss the sweet, loving boy he used to be.”
Noele brushes a leaf from the bright red patio chair and sits. “Was he like this last year?”
I think back, then shake my head. “No. But it was his first time with other children. He had tutors to help with his homework, andeverythingwas new and exciting. He played football and sang in the choir. Now…he still loves being with his friends, but there is more responsibility.”
“Then be patient with him for a time,” Noele says after a sip of champagne. “He knows you love him.”
Nodding, I focus my gaze on a flock of birds streaking across the sky. My sister means well, but she is not his mother. He does not slam doors with her, refuse his chores, or close himself in his room for hours because I asked him to tell me about his day.
I know I am lucky. Mateen is kind. Smart. Strong. He makes me laugh—when he is not making me cry. And most importantly, he understands the rules we must live by to stay safe.
* * *
Noele flops backon the sofa, her arm flung across her forehead. “We must find Maman a hobby.”
“Why? Is she asking when you will give her a grandchild?” I lean against the cushions, enjoying the relative quiet of late night. Mateen is asleep, the dishes are done, and my sister spent an hour telling stories of the last overly dramatic bride she took on as a client. “You and Marcel have been together for two years now. It is only natural.”
