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It’s one of the reasons I came here. She makes me feel closer to my mom like no one else can. I think in a way, she feels the same about me. Both of us finding parts of her in each other. I look more like my dad than my mom, having his blond hair and blue eyes, but my height, my petite build, my personality, all of that came from my mom.
It’s hard to think about the fact that at just twenty-seven years old, I’ve already lost both of my parents. My dad died in a car accident when I was only three, so I don’t remember much about him. But growing up, my mom told so many stories that I feel like I knew him. Not having him around was hard sometimes, but losing my mom, there aren’t words to describe how difficult that’s been.
She was everything to me. Growing up, it was me and her against the world. She was my best friend. My confidante. The person I would call if I was happy, sad, or just didn’t feel well and needed the comfort only a mother can give.
If you’ve ever lost a parent, you know my pain, like losing a part of yourself. If you haven’t, one day you will. And when that day comes, you’ll understand me perfectly.
“How was work?” My aunt offers me a smile that accentuates the fine lines around her mouth that you can’t see otherwise. For being fifty-eight, she wears it very well.
“It was okay.” I blow out a slow puff of air.
“Uh-oh. What’s that for?” She gives me a pointed look.
“A girl can breathe, can she not?” I nudge her shoulder with mine. “What are you making?” I lean over the pot, catching a whiff of tomatoes and herbs.
“Bolognese sauce. Will you taste it and make sure it’s not missing anything?” She pulls a spoon from the utensils drawer before handing it to me.
Dipping the spoon into the sauce, I blow on it gently before sliding it past my lips. Like everything my aunt Yiya makes, it’s delicious, and if my facial expression doesn’t give it away, the little noise of delight I make definitely does. Not that my reaction should surprise her. Sheisa retired chef, after all.
I’ve only been here for a few weeks and my waist is already expanding from all the food she keeps around the house. Like honestly, who can walk by a plate of homemade danishes and not take one? Or my kryptonite, donuts. And my aunt makes the best yeast donuts I’ve ever had.
“It’s amazing,” I tell her, placing the spoon in the sink. “You know, you don’t have to feed me a home-cooked mealeverynight. I’m starting to think you’re trying to fatten me up.”
“I enjoy having someone to cook for again.” She gives me a soft smile, one that reminds me so much of my mom it’s borderline painful—and yet I’m desperate for any trace of her that I cling to it like a lifeline. “And I don’t cookeverynight.”
Yiya—whose real name is actually Myra, but since I couldn’t properly pronounce it as a child, became Yiya—never had children of her own and her husband, who was basically her whole world for twenty-plus years, passed four years before Mom.
“Besides, you could stand to gain a few pounds. You’re too skinny,” she quickly adds.
I don’t bother arguing, mainly because she’s right. I spent an entire year caring for my mother as cancer stole her from me piece by piece. She was my priority, and some days I would crawl into bed at the end of the day and realize I hadn’t eaten but was too tired to get up and grab something. I think the only time I ate real food in that entire year was when Yiya would visit.
“What are you making anyway?”
“Spaghetti Bolognese. It was...”
“Uncle Nick’s favorite.” I remember aloud.
“It was.” She turns her attention back to the sauce. “So you don’t think it’s missing anything?”
“Not a single thing, but I’m guessing you already knew that.” I nudge her again. “Is there anything I can help with?”
“I’m almost finished. Why don’t you go freshen up, and I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
“Is that your way of telling me I stink?” I huff, laughing when she leans in and takes a big sniff.
“Actually, you smell quite lovely.” She gives me a cheeky smile. “But those clothes don’t seem all that comfortable.” She gestures to my black dress pants and cream-colored blouse. “And don’t try to deny that you can’t wait to let that hair down.” She tugs on the end of my low pony.
She knows me too well. I hate anything that isn’t pajama-like in both fit and material, and absolutely loathe wearing my hair up because it makes my scalp hurt. I still wear it up more often than not when I’m working because it feels more professional.
I know I work with children, but in a lot of ways, I work with their parents too. And when they look at me, I want them to see the picture-perfect image of someone who has their stuff together. Just because that’s not true, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t make it believable. And maybe, just a little bit, sometimes I need to believe it too.
“I’ll change after dinner,” I tell her, not wanting to change just yet because me and the tub have a date later. Bubbles and wine will also be attending.
“Well, in that case, you could set the table.” She gestures to the vicinity of the small, round table positioned in the corner of the eat-in kitchen.
“I can do that.” I turn, opening the cabinet to my left before pulling out a couple of plates.
“Did that woman come back today? The one you were telling me about that just had a baby?”
