Chapter Twelve: ITALY
927 Words
Xenia
I woke up to the smell of fresh bread.
For a moment, I didn’t open my eyes.
I simply lay there beneath the blankets, listening.
The distant clatter of dishes.
Voices downstairs.
The faint sound of music drifting through the house.
Warmth.
Home.
A smile spread across my face before I was even fully awake.
I had missed this.
Not the house itself.
Not the furniture.
Not even my old bedroom.
I missed the feeling.
The feeling of being home.
Beside me, a small blonde tornado was still asleep, tangled in enough blankets to survive an arctic expedition.
Kira had insisted on sleeping in my room.
My mother had immediately agreed.
My father had immediately lost the argument.
Some things were universal.
I quietly sat up and glanced at the clock.
Eight thirty.
Downstairs, I could already hear my mother moving around the kitchen.
Of course she was.
Thanksgiving at my parents’ house was treated less like a holiday and more like a military operation.
The thought almost made me laugh.
I slipped out of bed and gently shook Kira’s shoulder.
“Baby.”
A sleepy groan.
“Kira.”
One eye opened.
Then closed again.
“No.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
Both eyes opened immediately.
Like magic.
“Really?”
“Really.”
That was all it took.
Five minutes later she was racing downstairs ahead of me.
I followed more slowly.
The moment we entered the kitchen, my mother spotted us.
Her face lit up.
“Buongiorno!”
(Good morning!)
Kira grinned.
“Buongiorno!”
My mother’s smile somehow became even bigger.
She adored this child.
Completely.
Unconditionally.
And perhaps a little excessively.
My father sat at the table reading a newspaper.
Or pretending to.
The second Kira ran toward him, the newspaper mysteriously lowered.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
“Nonno!”
(Grandpa!)
He opened his arms.
“Ciao, principessa.”
(Hello, princess.)
Kira immediately climbed into his lap.
Traitor.
I had carried her for most of yesterday’s flight.
Yet apparently my father was now the favorite.
I was beginning to understand how Mr. Winslie felt sometimes.
My mother placed a plate in front of me.
Then another.
Then another.
I stared.
“Mama.”
“What?”
“This is enough food for six people.”
She looked offended.
“Nonsense.”
My father looked over the newspaper.
“It is enough food for six people.”
My mother ignored him.
As usual.
Breakfast quickly turned into chaos.
The good kind.
The family kind.
My mother spoke.
My father interrupted.
My mother interrupted his interruption.
Kira laughed at both of them.
I laughed at all three.
For the first time in months, I felt completely relaxed.
No classes.
No exams.
No assignments.
No worrying about grammar every time I opened my mouth.
Just family.
Just home.
After breakfast, my mother recruited us into helping prepare dinner.
Or more accurately, she recruited me.
Kira somehow escaped responsibility within thirty seconds.
A talent she had likely inherited from her father.
By noon, the entire house smelled incredible.
Fresh bread.
Roasted vegetables.
Herbs.
Pastries.
Sauces.
The kitchen looked like a cooking show had exploded.
My mother looked delighted.
A dangerous sign.
Very dangerous.
I was chopping vegetables when my phone buzzed.
One message.
Mr. Winslie.
I blinked.
Then opened it.
How is Italy?
Simple.
Polite.
Professional.
Exactly what I expected.
A smile tugged at my lips.
I quickly typed a reply.
Very good. My mother is trying to feed me to death.
The response arrived almost immediately.
That sounds about right.
I laughed.
My mother immediately became suspicious.
“What is it?”
I locked the screen.
“Nothing.”
She narrowed her eyes.
The same eyes I had inherited.
A terrifying realization.
“Xenia.”
“Mama.”
“Who was that?”
I sighed.
“Mr. Winslie.”
Immediately both parents looked up.
Wonderful.
Exactly what I needed.
Two detectives.
My father folded his newspaper.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“How is he?”
(Fine.)
“Come sta?”
(How is he?)
“Bene.”
(He’s fine.)
My mother exchanged a look with him.
I recognized that look.
Parents.
The greatest conspiracy organization in history.
Thankfully, Kira chose that exact moment to run into the kitchen carrying a drawing.
“Look!”
Crisis avoided.
For now.
The rest of the afternoon passed in laughter and preparation.
By evening, relatives began arriving.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Cousins.
Neighbors who somehow became family years ago.
The house filled with voices.
Italian surrounded me from every direction.
Fast.
Loud.
Passionate.
Comforting.
Nobody laughed at my accent here.
Nobody corrected my grammar.
Nobody made me feel like I didn’t belong.
Because here, I did belong.
As dinner finally began, I looked around the table.
My parents.
My family.
Kira squeezed between my father and one of my cousins, happily stealing food from everyone’s plates.
The room glowed with warmth.
With life.
With love.
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
Not from sadness.
From gratitude.
Because for a little while, everything felt simple again.
I didn’t know what challenges waited for me back home.
I didn’t know what the future would bring.
I only knew this moment.
This table.
This laughter.
This family.
And for tonight, that was enough.
Across the table, Kira caught my eye and grinned.
Then she held up a cookie she had somehow acquired despite dinner having started less than ten minutes ago.
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Then both of us burst into laughter.
Some things, apparently, were universal.
- Writer
