“Leonidas? Is that you?”
My father’s gravelly voice rolls from the kitchen. I find them there, as I knew I would, defying the diurnal rhythms of their adopted city. The scene is one of deep, anachronistic comfort. My father sits at the heavy oak table, a bottle of Mythos beer at his elbow, a fan of playing cards laid before him. A notepad, scored with his slanted, precise script, tracks the points of theirongoing Biriba tournament—which is basically a Greek version of gin rummy. The air is thick with the sweet, vanilla scent of my mother’s galaktoboureko, baking slowly in the oven. They keep the hours of their homeland, where night is for living, not just for sleeping.
“Leoni!” My mother rises, a force of nature in a flour-dusted apron. She crosses the room and captures my face in her warm, dough-scented hands, kissing each cheek with a firm smack. “You look like ghosts have been chasing you. Did you eat?”
“I’m fine.”
“Fine is not an answer to a mother’s question. Fine is what you say to a stranger.” Her eyes, dark as olives, scan me. “Sit. Your bones are tired, I can see it.”
She is already in motion, pulling containers from the refrigerator with a quiet, efficient clatter.
“Ma, it’s one in the morning—”
“So what? Your stomach, it knows what time is?” She’s already pulling things out of the fridge. “Sit down, Leoni. You’re too skinny.”
I wasn’t too skinny, but there was no winning with her.
My father looks up from his cards. “You stay tonight?”
“If that’s okay. I didn’t want to wake Emma.”
“This is your house,” he says, as if the concept of asking permission is absurd. “The interview?”
“A bust.”
“Why?”
“She was more interested in whether I was single than whether she could handle Emma.”
He grunts, a sound of profound understanding. “Eh. The right one will come. You don’t want just anyone.”
“I know. But ‘just anyone’ is all who seems to be applying.” The fatigue makes my voice thin.
My mother sets a plate before me: a generous square of pastitsio, its béchamel crust golden, a heap of salad bright with feta and oregano, a slab of crusty bread. The sight of it makes my stomach clench with sudden, urgent hunger. “Emma’s not so bad.”
“She locked a nanny in the bathroom for nearly an hour, Ma.”
“She was upset.”
“She threw a plate at someone’s head.”
“So? Was plastic plate.”
“Ma!”
“I’m just saying! The baby, she’s going through something,agapi.” My mother sits down across from me. “You do your best. It will get better.”
I want to believe her. I’m just not sure I do.
“These women today,” my mother continues, waving her hand dismissively. “They need more backbone. More grit. Since when was a plastic plate a tragedy? In my day, we—”
I laugh despite myself, just a little, as she goes on and start eating. I didn’t realize I was starving until now.
“Emma, she never acts this way with me and your father,” my mother says. “With us, she’s perfect little angel.”
I snort. “That’s because you feed her chocolate all day and let her stay up until midnight watchingThe Little Mermaid.”
“So what? I’m her yiayia. My job is to spoil.”
