Giovanni had been nineteen.S
Mom eighteen.
They planned to marry.
Then Mom’s father moved the family to America suddenly after a financial dispute.
Parenting
Letters were intercepted.
Addresses changed.
Years passed.
Each eventually married someone else.
Each built a family.
Each became widowed.
Neither imagined the other was still searching.
“I came here because my church friends said the food reminded them of Italy,” Mom whispered.
Giovanni smiled.
“I opened this place because I never stopped missing it.”
Then he looked at her.
“Maybe we were both looking for the same thing.”
I squeezed Mom’s hand beneath the table.
Earlier that evening, she’d walked into the restaurant hoping for nothing more than a birthday dinner that reminded her of home.
Instead, a stranger had humiliated her because of a cane, old shoes, and a handbag she’d owned for decades.
But ten minutes later, the sound of one broken plate had reopened a part of her life I never knew existed.
When we finally stood to leave, Giovanni bent and kissed Mom’s hand.
“Will I see you again?”
Mom gave him the mischievous smile I remembered from my childhood.
“That depends.”
His eyebrows rose.
“On what?”
She tapped her cane against the floor.
“Whether the gnocchi is always this good.”
He laughed so loudly half the kitchen heard him.
On the drive home, Mom sat quietly for several minutes.
Then she looked through the passenger window at the passing lights.
“I told you I wanted to feel at home again.”
I smiled.
“You did.”
She shook her head.
“No, sweetheart.”
Then she looked at me, tears shining beneath the streetlights.
“I think tonight, home found me.”
