My mom made lasagna and it smells like home and I want to throw up.
She’s been in the kitchen since 4 PM layering noodles and ricotta, and the table is set with the cloth napkins she bought when Dominic moved in and the candles she lights every dinner because she read somewhere that candlelight makes people feel connected, and the irony of that is so thick I could choke on it because the four people sitting at this table are connected in ways that candlelight cannot illuminate and cloth napkins cannot contain.
Knox sits to my left. Dominic sits across from me. My mom sits to my right, beaming at the lasagna like it’s a diploma she earned.
“I called three caterers today,” she says, serving Dominic first because she always serves him first, and the deference of the gesture makes my chest
