Page 39 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“Sorry, Mamma,” Cosimo muttered.

I watched as she began pulling items out of the bags. “What did you bring?”

“I heard Riona is coming over tonight,” she explained, holding up a throw pillow and waving it toward my living area. “A woman wants to envision a space as home. This… is not.”

“I live here. It’s home.” I couldn’t tell her that Riona gave less than a fuck whether I had matching throw pillows or… “Fluffy blankets?”

“Not everything must be leather and hard,” my mother admonished, laying the cream blanket across a corner of the couch.

Cosimo choked on his laugh when I smacked him on the back of his head, but Mamma turned toward us as he rose to retaliate.

“Do not just sit there.” She motioned toward the bags. “You both have hands. Get to work.”

A muscle in my brother’s jaw ticked with displeasure, but we both knew better than to argue with Mamma. I pawed through the bags, pulling out more throw pillows, blankets, and a black wire basket. There was fake gold fruit and even gold-framed photos of me with my family.

“You framed photos?” I asked, holding up several.

“Do you have family pictures?” My mother likely knew I didn’t. I side-eyed my brother because he’d no doubt informed on me.

“Rat,” I muttered.

She took the photos and arranged them on the fireplace mantel. “Show her you are a family man.”

My mouth went dry. I was not a family man. No bone in my body longed to be a paternal figure to the next generation. I could be the fun uncle, the black sheep, a cautionary tale to the nieces and nephews, but I could not be a father.

How could my mother think I would be good with children when I’d never seen a healthy father-son relationship? No, I would never have children of my own. I couldn’t tell her that and risk hurting her feelings, though. As much as my psychotic father was obsessed with furthering his DNA through his grandchildren, my mother doted on her only granddaughter and couldn’t wait to have more little feet pattering through the halls of her house.

She could put all the family photos in my place that she wanted, but seeing pictures from summers with my siblings wouldn’t suddenly convince me to create more humans. I wondered if Riona wanted a family. We were both closing in on thirty. I shook my head at my thoughts. It shouldn’t matter to me what she wanted for her future. We were playing a fun game, nothing more.

An hour later, my condo looked professionally decorated, down to the artfully arranged pile of pillows that now covered a third of my bed. When my mother marched into the main bedroom, I was suddenly thankful that I at least washed my bedding every week. It was a habit she ingrained in us from the time we were children, though, at home, we had Martina to do our laundry.

Instead of packing up to leave, my mother took over my kitchen and unpacked bags of groceries. Kicking her out wasn’t even an option.

“What are you doing?” I asked instead. Riona would arrive soon, and I’d rather she didn’t walk in to find my mother in my place.

“Making you dinner,” she said, like it was perfectly normal. As much as she cooked for us at home, my mother rarely set foot inside her children’s homes. “You can help. Fill the pot with water.”

“Yes, Mamma.” I did as she asked, placing the pot on the largest stove burner and cranking it up to high heat.

“What do you make for yourself?” she asked, then nodded toward Cosimo, who sat on a stool on the other side of the counter. “And you?”

“Usually chicken, rice, and veggies.” It was easy to prep for the week, and with my lifting schedule, I tried to eat the foods that would fuel muscle development.

Cosimo shrugged. “Chinese food. Stuff from Angelo’s.”

You’d think we’d slapped my mother with how appalled she looked. “No, no, no. You make Italian food.”

“I don’t have much time,” I tried to explain. I spent most of my time at the gym, working out, running the place, or working on the books.

“I make carbonara,” she sighed, her disappointment making my shoulders drop. Guilt was like a love language for Italian mammas. “At least you can make that for Riona later.”

“Mamma.” I found the strainer in a cabinet underneath the counter and set it in the sink while she made more noise than I knew was humanly possible, as she expressed her agitation while making pasta dough. “I know how to make carbonara.”

“Then you make it!” She shook a floured hand at me. “I taught you to take care of yourself.”

Cosimo pressed his lips together, laughing silently at my lecture. I had no qualms about dragging him under the bus with me. “At least I cook my own food. Cosimo can’t cook.”

That did the trick. Flour plumed as Mamma clapped her hands at my brother. “Be useful. Open the wine.”

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