“The nanny quit.”
She sighs, long and heavy, in that way Greek mothers have perfected over centuries. “This is the third one?”
“Sixth, actually.”
“Christos kai Panagia!” She makes the sign of the cross. “That poor baby! She misses her mother.”
I don’t want to talk about Rebecca. I don’t want to think about Rebecca. But my mother has a way of cutting straight to the things you’re trying to avoid.
“I know,” I say.
“She needs some stability. She needs—”
“Ma.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying.”
Maria appears then, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of spanakopita. She sees us and immediately changes course, setting the tray down on the counter and coming over to stand next to our mother.
Seeing them side by side is always a trip. It’s like looking at the same person separated by thirty years. They have the same thick, dark brown hair that waves when it’s humid. The same fair skin with an olive undertone that tans easily. The same high cheekbones and full lips. The same dark brown eyes that can convey affection or judgment with equal efficiency.
Maria’s wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt with the Roussos logo on it, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. She has a smudge of flour on her cheek.
“Emma found the secret stash,” Maria says, grinning.
I look between them. “Secret stash of what?”
Maria points at our mother. “Ma’s chocolate.”
I rub my hands down my face. “Great.”
My mother laughs, completely unbothered. “Is a crime for a girl to enjoy her chocolate? She’s four! Let her live!”
“She’s going to be bouncing off the walls.”
“Then she bounce! She’s happy!”
“Irene!” A man at one of the tables near the window waves. “The baklava today—orea! Beautiful!”
My mother beams. “Thank you, Dimitri! I make it fresh this morning! You come back soon, yes?”
“Always!” He waves again and heads toward the door.
My mother turns back to me, and before she can launch into whatever she was about to say, Maria cuts in. “I’m taking Emma for the weekend.”
“What? No. You don’t have to do that. I already feel terrible for dumping her on you for the afternoon—”
“Leo,” Maria holds up a hand. “You’re going to go home after your lecture. You’re going to take a bath. And then, you’re going to actually sleep, because the bags you’re getting under your eyes are atrocious.”
I reach up self-consciously. “I don’t have bags!”
She points at my chest. “Your sweater’s also on backwards.”
I look down, and shit. It is. The tag is sticking out near my collarbone.
“See?” Maria says, raising a brow. “You need a break. I’ll take Emma. She’ll be fine.”
