Page 21 of Christmas in Paradise

Sebastian

The smell of Mom’s lasagna hits me before I walk through the outside door into the mudroom, and my stomach immediately responds with a growl. Nobody makes lasagna like my mom. She brought the family recipe with her when she moved here from Italy after marrying my dad. Not on a recipe card or anything. Just in her head. Like all her recipes.

When I moved back in with Mom a year ago to buy Sparks Electric from Grandpa, while also saving money to buy my own house someday, her cooking softened the blow my ego took. A grown man living with his mom is not my best look. At least my bedroom isn’t in the basement.

The smell of garlic, tomato, and sausage fills the air in the mudroom, even though the door to the kitchen is closed. I drop my coat and toolbox on the bench, slip off my boots, and in my best Puerto Rican accent call, “Lucy, I’m home!”

My mom used to watchI Love Lucyreruns growing up in Italy and always says my dad reminded her of a blonde Desi Arnaz, mostly because, in her words, “his Italian was so bad it could have been Spanish.”

My younger sister, Stella, meets me in entryway to the kitchen and eyes the pile of stuff I left on the floor. “Dude, at least hang up your coat.”

Living with Mom didn’t get easier when Stella moved back in six months ago.

“Don’t boss your brother, Stella,” Mom calls from her spot at the stove. “I’ll pick it up later. Come give your mamma a kiss.”

I shoot Stella a smirk as I pass her. She rolls her eyes before going to the mudroom, hanging up my coat, and tucking my toolbox and boots under the bench.

“I have news,” Mom says after I kiss her cheek.

“Oh yeah? What is it?” I open the oven and carefully lift the tinfoil covering a casserole dish. Cheese bubbles, and I inhale the delicious smell.

“Get out of there!” Mom swats my hand, and my fingers brush the hot dish.

“Ouch! Ma!”

“That’s what you get for sticking your hand in my oven.” She wipes her hands on her apron, then goes back to her pan of garlic broccolini. “Stella, set the table.”

“Why can’t Seb set the table? I do it every night.” Stella puts her hand on her hip, but with one look from Mom, she takes three plates out of the cupboard.

“Your brother has been working all day. He’s tired.”

“I’ve been working all day too!” Stella scoops utensils from the drawer with an angry clatter.

With both hands, Mom waves away Stella’s protests. “What you do isn’t hard work, except on your brain. It takes no muscle to make your videos and socialist media.”

“Socialmedia, Ma,” Stella says with a heavy sigh. “And my work is hard too.”

“It’s true, Ma,” I boost myself on the counter and steal a piece of garlic bread from the basket there. “Her thumbs get very tired from all that texting and posting.”

Stella glares at me and reaches for her own piece of bread. Mom swats her hand, and she drops it back in the basket. “Seb has one!” she cries, shaking her hand.

When Mom turns her back, I grab another piece of bread and hand it to Stella. Mom’s always tougher on her than she is on me, because, in her words,it’s tougher to be a woman than a man.She wants Stella to be able to handle whatever comes her way, just like Mom had to do when Dad died, and she had five-year-old me and baby Stella on the way.

But she also gives Stella the hugs and kisses she knows Stella loves. Mom is soft on her in all the ways Stella needs.

With bread poking out of my cheeks, I say, “Tell me your news, Mamma.”

She opens the oven and pulls out the lasagna. Steam spirals from the top when she takes off the foil, then places it on the table set for three. I hop off the counter, grab a fork, and sit in front of it.

“Don’t touch! It must sit!” Mom snatches the fork from me and tucks it in her apron pocket. She knows me too well to put it back in front of me. “Go wash up. Come back in ten minutes when it’s ready.”

“Fine.” I push out of my chair and go upstairs to wash my hands. There’s no way I can stay anywhere near the lasagna without digging into it before it’s time, so I spend ten minutes scrolling through TikTok before going back downstairs.

“News, Ma,” I say as soon as I sit down.

Stella is already at the table, but Mom still bustles around the kitchen, making all the final touches for dinner.

“I talked to your friend today, even though she broke your heart,” she says nonchalantly, but my eyes dart to Stella whose lip pulls into a satisfied grin. “A thing you probably deserved after all the hearts you’ve broken.”

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