Later she admitted, her voice thick with emotion, that she’d overheard a conversation between her kids that had made her cry. Out of pride... and apprehension.
Her ex-husband—il coglione[XVI]—will be at Ethan’s graduation next week. I know they share two children, and that, in some way, he’ll always be part of her life. But I won’t pretend I didn’t feel that pang in my chest when I pictured them in the same place again.
When I asked how she felt about it, Cecilia said,“I’m happy with how their conversation went. It couldn’t make me happier that despite everything that happened, their bond was never damaged... that they never lost that safety to ask each other for something like this. He’s only graduating high school once, and I want him to look back one day without regrets… without wondering if he should’ve invited his father, especially if they manage to mend things. I know my son. If Ethan truly didn’t want Colin there, he would’ve found a way to let Alicia down gently. But I can’t help feeling anxious about all of it.”
As she spoke, I could hear the strength in her voice battling the tremor beneath it, a careful balance I feel she’s always trying to keep. And even though I understood every reason behind her words... it didn’t stop the sting of jealousy from taking place deep inside me.
I wanted to ask if that anxiety was only about Ethan, or if part of it was the thought of sitting next to her ex-husband for hours during the graduation ceremony.
How long do those ceremonies last in the States, anyway?
Mine was so long ago I can barely remember.
But I don’t say any of that to Nonna. I run a hand over my beard and say, “Too many business matters to handle, not nearly enough time for all of them.”
“E io ci credo[XVII]...”she says, narrowing her eyes, the tone halfway between teasing and knowing she’s caught me hiding something.
“You better believe it. And don’t even try to change the subject. I haven’t forgotten that I caught you standing on that stool when I got here.”
I point a finger at her, aiming for a scolding, but there’s no missing the amusement in my voice.
“There are plenty of people in this house who can do things for you. It’s time for you to take it easy,SignoraCarmela.”
“Assurdo![XVIII]I’m not some helpless old woman. My mind is sharp and my body keeps up just fine—sì[XIX]?”
She takes another sip of her tea, eyes glinting with mischief, every inch the queen of her kitchen.
“After ninety, maybe I’ll take it easy. These younger generations were born tired, always needing a rest.”
I can’t help but laugh, almost choking on a cookie as I shake my head. She says it with such conviction it almost sounds like a declaration of war.
“That’s not true. You’re just impossible. And let’s be honest, when you reach ninety, you’ll say you’re not stopping until a hundred.”
Nonna waves her hand dismissively.
“Ma va’![XX]I don’t even want to live that long. I need to go check on Franco soon, make sure he hasn’t gotten himself tangled up with somesvergognata[XXI] on the other side. That man was no saint.”
I know what part of her means when she says that, half joking, but there’s longing there too. I also hope she stays with us for many more years.
Franco was her husband—ten years older, my grandfather, who passed away last year. During those first few weeks, we all feared for Nonna’s health; the two of them had been inseparable. They fought constantly but loved each other just as fiercely.
With time she began to recover. Little by little, finding her footing again. To this day, she calls him a scoundrel, says he was too charming for his own good. But everyone knows he never looked at another woman. His heart belonged to her, always.
Soon enough, she’s telling me the latest neighborhood gossip, while we finish our tea. I just nod along, smiling every time she tells me what she’s been up to when I was traveling. Just content to be in her presence.
“Missing that view?”
I turn to see Angelo, my cousin Pietro’s husband, walking toward me from across the pool area.
I nod. “No matter how many places I visit, nothing ever compares to what I feel standing here.”
My eyes move across the property that’s been in my family for generations. The endless expanse of olive groves melting into the horizon, the small orchard my great-great-grandfather planted for his wife, standing as proud as ever after all these years.
And then the house—pale yellow, timeless—its marble staircase crafted by Santoro Marmo framing the entrance from end to end.It’ll outlive all of us,I think,and keep telling our story long after we’re gone.
“Feeling nostalgic,amico mio[XXII]?” Angelo says with a teasing grin. “Or is that look about missing a certain americana[XXIII], sì[XXIV]?”
I rub the back of my neck, letting out a breath.
