Since there’s not much I love more than being in the kitchen with another food lover, it wasn’t hard to get me to say yes.
“Great. What do you want for breakfast? I was going to make a veggie scramble. Want some?”
“Sure.”
We move around the kitchen easily, slipping into old habits from back before I went to college. When it was just the two of us, living in tiny rental apartments. We cooked together a lot back then, Mom teaching me the basics, and then letting me have free creative control when she realized how much I loved being in the kitchen.
Soon, we’re in her car, driving toward the mountains.
“So, what are you most looking forward to when you go back to Italy?”
Her posture is casual, her body relaxed as she drives, but I know Mom. And I can hear the nervous tension in her words. I put my hand on her leg.
“Mom, we don’t have to talk about Italy.”
“Honey, you’re my girl. My ride or die. I want to talk about everything that’s important to you, including Italy. You know that.”
I sit back in my seat with a nod. I do know that. Ever since I moved, she’s never shied away from wanting to know about that part of my life.
“I guess I’m looking forward to seeing the restaurant and being back in the kitchen,” I answer half-heartedly. I can’t say the truth, that I miss my dad and all of my family. Just like when I’m home, I don’t talk all that often about how much I miss Mom. Even though they’re good now, and have a perfectly friendly relationship, it feels weird.
“Is the plan still for you to take over ownership someday?”
I nod, then realize she’s watching the road and can’t see me. “I’d love to, someday, but I don’t know when that would happen. Vito is nowhere near ready to step down, he loves that place too much.” I smile fondly, thinking of the burly Italian who took a chance on me and gave me my first job in a kitchen. I know I’ve more than proved I was a good hire, but I’m still grateful to him.
“But that’s still the dream, right? To own your own restaurant?”
“That’s the dream.”
We stop at a red light, and she looks over at me. “Does that dream have to be in Italy?” The light turns green, and she looks forward again before rushing on. “I’m just saying. Are you at least staying open to the possibility of reaching that goal somewhere else, say, here?”
I hold back my sigh and turn to stare out my window. Sometimes it feels like I go round and round in circles with my mother. We’ve had almost the exact same conversation several times before, but I know she’s hoping to get a different answer from me eventually. We’re winding our way up the road to one of the local mountains now, where Mom says there’s a nice two-hour hike.
“I’m open to anything, Mom. But opportunities to work in or take over, or heck, even open successful restaurants are notexactly plentiful. Right now, Vito’s offer is the best possible option I’ve got.”
Mom doesn’t bother to hold back her sigh. “I hear you, Belles. And I’m sorry if I’m coming across as pushy. I just hate having you so far away. Video chats and a couple of visits a year just isn’t enough.” She sniffs, and I look over to see her eyes are glassy.
“Mom. Don’t cry.” I want to reassure her, but I don’t know what to say. It’s too expensive for either of us to fly back and forth more than once a year, and I don’t normally have a lot of time off from the restaurant.
“Sorry, honey. I’m fine. Sheesh. You’d think the hormonal mood swings would be over by your forties, but nope, they just get worse. Perimenopause is a bitch.” She forces a laugh as she swings into a parking spot. Once the car is turned off, she rotates fully in her seat to face me. “Besides. We’ve had an awesome time these last couple of months, and we still have another couple of months to go. No need to get emotional.” She swipes away her last few tears with another shaky laugh. “C’mon, let’s hike.”
Sometimes I feel like the worst daughter ever. I know she didn’t mean to, but the hike with my mom, and our conversations, brought all of the guilt I’ve felt about leaving her for Italy back to the surface.
And now I’m staring at my phone, where a text from my dad is waiting for me.
DAD: Miss you piccola mia. How is your mama? Nonna says make sure you get enough to eat. She is worried you no eat pasta each day.
ISABELLE: Hey Dad. Miss all of you too. I’m getting plenty of pasta, please tell Nonna not to worry.
I quickly attach a photo from the hike I just was on and send it over.
DAD: Bellissima. You are having fun?
ISABELLE: Yes, I am.
I tap a button to call him, and seconds later, his deep voice fills my ears.
“My Isabelle. You are okay?” His richly accented English is so comforting. It’s funny how even after only knowing him for eight years, he’s very much my dad, and I’m his little girl.
