Page 27 of Christmas in Paradise

“They’re almost ready, bambolina!” Mom scoops out spaghetti noodles from the pot, and I guess what Charly said had something to do with dinner. “She’ll eat them al dente?”

“She’ll eat them however you make them, Mrs. Sparks,” Hope answers. “Can you say thank you to Mrs. Sparks, Charly girl?”

The little girl’s brow creases behind her glasses, and she closes her mouth tight.

“She’s in a mood,” Hope says, her eyes bouncing from me to Mom.

“Of course she is after traveling two days so far. And call me Gia, please!” She sets a bowl of spaghetti topped with butter and cheese in front of Charly, then bends down to meet her eye-to-eye. “Can you say Miss Gia?”

“Misshia,” Charly says, then picks up a handful of noodles.

“Very good!” Mom beams while also prodding Charly to drop the noodles back in her bowl. “Let’s try with a fork.”

She helps Charly pick up a small plastic fork, then repositions Charly’s thumb above her fingers so it’s not wrapped around her hand. All the while, Mom explains to Hope that this will help Charly better grip a pencil and improve her fine motor skills.

“Noodles are difficult, but I want her to feel comfortable and happy here,” Mom continues as she helps Charly maneuver spaghetti on to her fork. “And food is my language of love.”

“Love language, Mamma,” Stella says, but Mom waves away her correction.

“Check on the chicken, Stellina.” Mom’s eyes don’t move from Charly as she helps her eat. “That’s it, bambolina! Good job!”

I realize Charly is sitting chest-level to the table, and I peek under to see how Mom’s made that happen.

She’s got some contraption on the chair legs that has raised the whole thing. I don’t know where she got it, or why it’s better than one of those baby seat things that kids go in, but I know she’s got her reasons.

When Dad died, Mom didn’t want to leave Stella all day, even with family, so she opened a home daycare. But she found what she was really good at was working with kids who had some kind of disability. Kids who needed physical or other kinds of therapies usually had to be taken all the way to Florence to get what they needed.

Mom decided to get certified as an occupational therapist. Then she opened a preschool closer to the center of town. She brought in a partner who focused on curriculum while she focused on providing occupational therapy, both in school and as an in-home caretaker. In the last few years, she’s limited the number of private clients she takes and focused on the preschool.

But now Charly will be her private client. When she’s not at Mom’s preschool, she’ll get one-on-one therapy here with Mom, since we have more room than Evie does, which is where Hope will be staying.

I let my gaze drift to Hope who’s watching Mom and Charly so intently, she doesn’t notice me watching her. She chews her lip, but I don’t think it’s from worry. When she wipes a hand under her eye, I know what she's feeling is gratitude.

“You’re so good with her already, Gia. I don’t know how to thank you.” Hope’s voice is full of relief.

“My mamma is the best.” Stella kisses the top of Mom’s head, then sets a plate loaded with chicken parmesan, homemade pasta, and Caesar salad in front of Hope.

The next plate is for Mom, then she loads up one more and carries it my way. I’m about to take it when she sets it in her spot, then quickly sits down.

“Where’s mine?”

“On the counter. You can serve yourself.” She takes a huge bite and moans with pleasure.

“Ma,” I complain, but she shakes her head.

“I’m too busy to work out your problems with your sister.” Mom smiles and coos at Charly, encouraging her to use her fork and practice saying Miss Gia.

Hope sends me a questioning glance.

“The reason Mamma is great with toddlers is because she’s had twenty-eight years of practice with Seb. She’s never stopped treating him like a baby.” Stella forks another bite of chicken in her mouth and grins.

Heat floods my face, and I go to the counter to dish up the food there.

“Shut up, Stella.” I scoop a piece of chicken onto my plate but touch the hot dish and burn the side of my hand. “Ouch!” I yelp, then try to shake off the pain.

“I don’t treat him like a baby,” Mom protests. “I only like to do things for him. Just like I order special the make-up and hair things you like. Besides, you’ll both always be my babies.”

The rest of the meal is more of the same. Me trying to work up the courage to make conversation with Hope while Stella finds another way to tease me. She’s not trying to be mean. This is what we do at dinner. And afterward. And before.

---