Chapter Nine: CALL WITH FAMILY ( HOMESICK )
1070 Words
Xenia
Sunday evenings always made me homesick.
Not the dramatic kind shown in movies where people stare sadly out of windows while sad music plays in the background.
Just small moments.
A familiar recipe.
A family photograph.
A scent that reminded me of home.
Little things.
The kind that sneak up on you when you least expect it.
I had just returned to my dorm after spending the weekend at the estate. My room was small compared to the Winslie estate, but it was comfortable enough. A single bed stood against the wall, textbooks were piled on my desk, and family photographs occupied almost every available surface.
I dropped my bag onto the floor and immediately collapsed onto my bed.
For approximately ten seconds.
Then my phone began ringing.
I didn’t even need to check the screen.
Only one person called this many times in a row.
“Mama.”
I answered.
The second the call connected, rapid Italian filled my ears.
“Xenia! Finalmente! Pensavo fossi morta!”
(Xenia! Finally! I thought you were dead!)
I laughed.
“Mama, sono passati solo venti minuti.”
(Mama, it’s only been twenty minutes.)
“Ventiquattro minuti.”
(Twenty-four minutes.)
“È praticamente la stessa cosa.”
(That’s practically the same thing.)
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“It isn’t.”
I smiled.
Some arguments never changed.
The screen shifted as my mother moved around the kitchen. I immediately recognized the familiar yellow walls behind her.
Home.
Thousands of miles away.
Yet somehow still capable of making my chest ache.
“Come stai?”
(How are you?)
The question was simple.
The answer wasn’t.
“Bene.”
(Fine.)
My mother narrowed her eyes instantly.
Every mother in the world seemed capable of detecting lies through technology.
“You look tired.”
“Sto studiando.”
(I’m studying.)
“You’re not sleeping enough.”
“Mama.”
“Xenia.”
I sighed.
My father appeared in the background carrying a basket of tomatoes.
Unlike my mother, he pretended not to notice my attempts at lying.
Usually.
“Ciao, principessa.”
(Hello, princess.)
I smiled immediately.
“Ciao, papà.”
My father set the basket down before sitting beside my mother.
For a few minutes we talked about ordinary things.
The weather.
Neighbors.
Family friends.
A cousin who had somehow managed to crash a scooter into a fountain.
Twice.
Apparently nobody was surprised.
Then my mother’s expression softened.
“Come vanno gli studi?”
(How are your studies going?)
I hesitated.
Only briefly.
“Vanno bene.”
(They’re going well.)
Another lie.
Not entirely.
Just partially.
The classes were going well.
The people weren’t.
I didn’t tell them about the laughter.
Or the comments.
Or the way my accent became entertainment for some students.
There was no point.
My parents already worried enough.
I wasn’t interested in adding to the list.
My father studied me quietly.
He always noticed more than he said.
“Sicura?”
(Are you sure?)
I forced a smile.
“Certo.”
(Of course.)
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then my mother changed the subject.
Thankfully.
“Come sta la bambina?”
(How is the little girl?)
A genuine smile appeared.
“Kira sta bene.”
(Kira is doing well.)
That wasn’t a lie.
Talking about Kira was easy.
I told them about the pillow fort.
The cookies.
The countless questions.
The fact that she was currently convinced a squirrel lived in the estate’s garden and was secretly spying on everyone.
My father laughed so hard he nearly knocked over his chair.
“Mi piace quella bambina.”
(I like that child.)
“Anche lei ti vuole bene.”
(She likes you too.)
My mother smiled.
“Ti sei affezionata a lei.”
(You’ve grown attached to her.)
The statement wasn’t a question.
I looked down at my hands.
Maybe I had.
A little.
Okay.
A lot.
“È una brava bambina.”
(She’s a good child.)
My mother exchanged a look with my father.
The kind parents share when they know something before their children do.
I immediately became suspicious.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Mama.”
“Nothing.”
That definitely meant something.
Before I could investigate further, my father spoke.
“E il signor Winslie?”
(And Mr. Winslie?)
I nearly choked.
“Mio Dio.”
(My God.)
“What?”
My father looked innocent.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
“Sto solo chiedendo.”
(I’m just asking.)
“He is fine.”
“Mhm.”
“He came back from Russia.”
“Mhm.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Papà.”
“Sto solo ascoltando.”
(I’m just listening.)
Liar.
A complete liar.
Fortunately, my mother rescued me.
Unfortunately, she made things worse.
“È ancora così serio?”
(Is he still that serious?)
I laughed despite myself.
“Sì.”
(Yes.)
“Meglio.”
(Better.)
That surprised me.
“Better?”
“One cheerful person in a conversation is enough.”
I gasped.
My own mother had betrayed me.
The call continued for almost another hour.
Long enough for my homesickness to soften.
Long enough for me to forget about school.
About tuition.
About stress.
About everything.
For a little while, I was simply a daughter again.
Not a student.
Not a nanny.
Not someone constantly trying to prove herself.
Just Xenia.
Eventually my mother glanced at the clock.
“Devi dormire.”
(You need to sleep.)
“I know.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
“You won’t.”
My father laughed.
Unfortunately, he agreed with her.
After several more goodbyes, the call finally ended.
The room immediately felt quieter.
Smaller.
Lonelier.
I stared at the dark screen for several seconds.
Then looked toward the family photograph sitting on my desk.
I missed them.
More than I admitted.
But one day all this studying would be worth it.
One day I’d graduate.
One day I’d help them.
One day my father wouldn’t have to worry about bills anymore.
One day.
The thought settled warmly in my chest.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
Kira.
Of course.
A photograph appeared.
Kira and Mr. Winslie stood in the kitchen.
Flour covered both of them.
The caption read:
DADDY LOST THE COOKIE WAR.
I laughed so loudly that another student in the dorm banged on the wall.
For the first time all day, I didn’t feel quite so far from home.
- Writer
