We’re about as close as a mother and daughter can get, even if we live on opposite sides of the planet. That’s what happens when your mom has you at sixteen, I guess. It’s a love forgedby fire. She could have given me up, abandoned me, or not had me at all, but she didn’t. Instead, she begged her parents not to kick her out, despite her transgression being very out of line with their conservative values.
Their only daughter sleeping with a random Italian boy on the last day of their family vacation and coming home pregnant was just about the worst offense they could think of.
When I was old enough to understand more, I could see how suffocating they were. How hard it was for my mom to stay with them, and the sacrifices she made for me. She always said that she wished she could’ve given me a different life. One with more security, where we didn’t have to rely on her coldhearted parents for the early years.
That’s not to say I had a bad childhood. Mom did her best, and I will always love and admire her for everything she did. Even more so, because once she managed to get us out of my grandparents’ house, she did it all alone. The two of us, against the world.
I spy her immediately as I round the corner to the waiting area for international arrivals. Her blonde hair is the same as mine, except, where mine is in a messy braid, hers looks perfect. Her grey eyes, also matching mine, shine with tears as I hurry around the barrier and into her waiting hug.
“You’re here,” she says, the words muffled by the fact that she’s squeezing me so tight.
“I’m here, and I’m exhausted,” I mumble back, sagging into her arms. She steps back and looks me over.
“Yeah, you look it.”
“Gee, thanks.”
She grins, her smile so much like mine. We’re frequently mistaken for sisters instead of mother and daughter. The only difference being my skin is a shade darker, with my father’s oliveundertones coming through, and I’ve got more curves than my mom.
Growing up, I often wondered what other differences were because of my father, and Mom hated that she couldn’t give me any answers. It wasn’t that she was hiding him from me. She genuinely didn’t have the answers I wanted. She once said to me that her biggest regret in life was that she never knew who he was, or how to get in touch with him. He was just an Italian teenager, also on vacation in Positano with his family. They met at a youth nightclub, fooled around, and then went their separate ways with nothing more than exchanging first names.
Nine months later, I came along.
And twenty years later, after submitting my DNA to one of those online databases in an attempt to satisfy my curiosity about the other half of my family, I found him.
Well. My cousin Maria found me, but still.
That two-week trip over spring break to meet my father and his family turned into so much more. I took a leave from university and extended my stay to a month. Then two. Then I quit university all together and turned my whole life upside down by moving to Italy permanently.
Mom supported me through it all. She knew how important it was for me to find myself, and that my best chance of doing that was in Italy with the other half of my family.
We reach Mom’s car and load my suitcases into the trunk before getting in. I buckle up my seatbelt and turn to see her looking at me, her eyes shiny again.
“Mom,” I say with a shake of my head. “You gotta stop crying.”
She half sobs, half laughs. “I’m sorry, I’m just so happy you’re here. We get almost six months together, Belles. We haven’t had that long together in forever.”
I lean over when she goes in for another hug. She’s right. Visits to each other over the years and one backpacking trip throughnorthern Europe wasn’t enough. It has been over a decade since we lived together, and I’ve missed her.
“You can thank the rusty pipe gods for that,” I say jokingly. It’s sort of true, though. I wouldn’t be here, and I certainly wouldn’t be planning to stay for so long, if not for a broken pipe in the kitchen of the restaurant I work at. When the owner, Vito, had the building inspected for repairs, they found a whole host of issues. Common enough in that area of Italy where most buildings are older than dirt. He decided to close down for a few months and do a total renovation. Which left me with a lot of time on my hands. In the end, it was my father who encouraged me to accept Mom’s offer to stay with her and her new husband.
“I wish I could have one of those pipes to keep. I’d frame it and put it above the fireplace in a position of honour. The pipe that brought my daughter back to me,” she says solemnly before we both collapse in laughter again. “Okay. Let’s go home. Tony won’t be back for a few more days, so we have the house to ourselves.”
I settle in for the drive, letting her go on and on about Vancouver, her job here, and of course, Tony.
As in Tony Stirling, her new husband, and the head coach for the Vancouver Tridents baseball team.
For eight years, I’ve avoided baseball. Easy enough to do in a country that doesn’t revere it the way Canada and the USA does. And now I’m moving into the home of a major league coach?
Great.
When we pull up to the cute little two-story house she and Tony live in, Mom gets out first, grabs my suitcases, and brings it around to me.
“So, what do you think?” she asks, and I almost detect a hint of nerves.
I turn to her. “I think you deserve all of this. The guy, the house, everything. I’m happy for you, Mom.”
“Oh Belles.” She throws her arms around me so suddenly, I stumble back. For so long, it was me and Mom against the world. And while I know she never regretted having me, she has told me before that she regrets being so young and unsettled in her own life. She felt like she couldn’t give me everything she wanted me to have.
