19. Meet the Family （Or Else）
19
MEET THE FAMILY (OR ELSE)
MACKENZIE
The problem with being part of an Italian family in Seattle is that you can only avoid their restaurant for so long before someone (Nonna) threatens to disown you. Especially when you haven't shown up for two Sunday dinners in a row, and your sister (Lucia, the traitor) has been feeding them details about your "handsome CEO situation."
"Mackenzie Regina Gallo!" Nonna's voice through my phone could probably be heard in Portland. “Just a few weeks before Christmas and you're still avoiding family dinner? What did I do wrong in raising you? Was it the gnocchi? Did I not make enough gnocchi?"
I pace my office, watching the early evening darkness settle over Seattle. The city's holiday lights twinkle through a light snowfall, making everything look festive and magical and absolutely not helping my guilt complex.
"Nonna, I'm not avoiding?—"
"Then you'll be here tonight. Seven o'clock. No excuses." I can hear pots clanging in the background – never a good sign. "And bring your Alexander. "
I freeze mid-pace. "My what?"
"Your handsome CEO. Lucia says he likes good wine. I have a 1982 Brunello that?—"
"He's not my anything , and I have plans?—"
"Plans?" The pot-clanging intensifies. "More important than family? Than your poor Nonna who only wants to meet the man who's finally making you smile again?"
"Nonna—"
"Seven o'clock," she repeats firmly. "Or I start calling your mother every ten minutes about grandchildren."
She hangs up before I can protest. Because of course she does.
My phone buzzes immediately – Lucia:
LUCIA: So... funny story. Remember how Nonna kept asking for Alex's number for "emergency restaurant delivery planning"?
ME: Lucia. What did you do?
LUCIA: In my defense, she threatened to stop making her tiramisu. You know I'm weak when she threatens the tiramisu.
ME: Tell me you didn't.
LUCIA: On the bright side, your 7PM dinner plans with Alex now have a very specific location!
I'm going to kill her. Right after I figure out how to handle the fact that my anonymous blog post about tech industry mental health just went viral, TechCrunch is hunting my secret identity, and now Alex is about to meet my entire family.
The blog post had seemed important this morning – a thoughtful piece about the real human cost of tech's burnout culture. I hadn't even criticized Drake Enterprises directly. Instead, I'd written about the industry-wide need for genuine support rather than meditation cushions and wellness journals.
It had exploded. Major news sites were picking it up, tech leaders were sharing it, and somehow it had sparked a broader conversation about mental health in Silicon Valley.
And now, instead of having a private dinner with Alex to discuss all of this (and possibly continue what we'd started in his office), I'm going to have to?—
"Ms. Gallo?" Emma appears in my doorway. "Mr. Drake wanted me to confirm your dinner plans. Something about a 1982 Brunello and threat of grandchildren?"
For the love of all things humiliating…
My phone buzzes again – Alex this time:
ALEX: Your grandmother is formidable. I see where you get it from.
ME: I'm so sorry. We can raincheck ? —
ALEX: And risk the tiramisu embargo? I think not. Besides, I hear the gnocchi is legendary.
ME: Alex, my family is... intense.
ALEX: Like revolutionary-developers-with-holiday-carols intense, or...?
ME: Worse. Much worse.
ALEX: I'll pick you up at 6:45.
Well. This is definitely happening.
I spend the next hour trying to work, but my mind keeps spinning between the viral blog post, the family dinner, and the way Alex had looked at me this morning when I'd stopped by his office to "discuss the TechCrunch situation."
We hadn't done much discussing.
My phone buzzes yet again – Sofia this time:
SOFIA: Nonna's making seven types of pasta. SEVEN. She says it's "casual" but she's broken out the good olive oil. You're doomed.
ME: Help me get out of this?
SOFIA: Sorry, sorella. She's already named three of the pasta dishes after your future children.
Another text comes in – Alex :
ALEX: By the way, I have a proposition for you. About this weekend.
ME: Is it an escape plan from family dinner?
ALEX: Better. My cabin in the mountains. Two days away from tech journalists and revolutionary developers. Just us.
Oh. Oh my.
Before I can respond, Nonna's text arrives:
NONNA: The Brunello is breathing. If you're not here at 7, I start sending your baby pictures to the entire tech industry. Including the one from that swimming lesson incident.
I groan, dropping my head to my desk. Through the glass walls, I can see Keith teaching what appears to be a revolutionary version of "Jingle Bells" to the development team.
My viral blog post has sparked an industry-wide conversation about mental health.
Alex has essentially invited me away for a romantic weekend.
And in forty-five minutes, these two parts of my life are going to collide over seven types of pasta and a very expensive bottle of wine.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything, probably.
But first: I need to warn Alex about the photo album Nonna definitely has ready.
And possibly explain why there's a pasta dish named "Bambino Alexander Junior."
La Famiglia glows like a beacon in the snowy Seattle evening, strings of white lights reflecting off icicles that frame the windows. Through the frosted glass, I can see the dining room is suspiciously empty for seven PM on a Wednesday .
"Did Nonna close the restaurant?" I ask in horror as Alex helps me from his car.
"Just the main dining room," Lucia calls from the doorway. "She said something about 'proper focus on family matters.'"
Sure she did. Because this situation definitely needed more intensity.
Alex's hand settles at the small of my back as we approach, warm and steady. He's traded his usual CEO suit for dark jeans and a thick wool sweater that probably costs more than most cars. The casual look somehow makes him more intimidating, not less.
"Your grandmother already invited me for Christmas dinner before I picked you up,” he murmurs as we reach the door. “She’s not big on asking guests if they already have plans, huh?”
"That's Nonna for you. By New Year's she'll have our wedding planned."
"Just New Year's? I'd have expected Valentine's Day at latest."
Before I can process the implications of him joking about our hypothetical wedding, we're engulfed in a wave of Italian hospitality and interrogation.
"Alexander!" Nonna emerges from the kitchen like a tiny, flour-dusted general. "Come, come. You're too skinny. Don't they feed CEOs in those glass towers?"
"Usually we subsist on corporate takeovers and revolutionary manifestos," he says smoothly, accepting her cheek kisses like he's been doing it for years.
"Ah, he has humor!" She beams. "Mackenzie, this one's better than the last one already."
I wince, but Alex just squeezes my hand. When did he start holding my hand?
"The Brunello is breathing," Nonna continues, leading us to the family's private dining room. "Mackenzie, your mother wants to know?—"
"No grandchildren questions," I cut in. "We're not even?— "
"Dating?" Sofia supplies from where she's setting the table. "Because according to Keith Frampton’s Twitter?—"
"Since when do you follow Keith on IG?”
"Since he started a revolutionary book club dedicated to 'liberating corporate romance from the chains of professional boundaries.'"
I'm going to kill Keith. Right after I survive this dinner.
Alex, the traitor, looks amused. "The book club's actually improving team morale. Though his interpretation of 'Pride and Prejudice' as a critique of corporate hierarchy was... unique."
"Mr. Darcy as the oppressive force of traditional management styles?" I can't help asking.
"Elizabeth as the revolutionary spirit of workplace reform."
"See?" Nonna emerges with the first course. "He understands literature AND business. Much better than Roberto."
The mention of my ex-husband lands like a lead weight. Alex's hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing gently.
As if summoned by the mention of his name, my phone buzzes with an email from Roberto. Something about the baby shower and Katie wanting my "blessing" because "we're all adults here."
Delete.
"So, Alexander," Mama appears with more food than any six people could possibly eat. "Mackenzie says you're changing things at your company. Making it better for women in tech?"
"Actually," Alex's voice carries a pride that makes my chest tight, "Mac's the one changing things. I'm just smart enough to listen."
"Unlike some people," Nonna mutters darkly. "That Roberto, always talking about supporting her career, but when she got that promotion?—"
"Nonna," I warn .
"What? I'm just saying, this one looks at you like you hung the moon AND respects your brain. The way a man should."
I wait for Alex to tense at the marriage hints, to pull back from the family intensity. Instead, he launches into a detailed discussion with Mama about our corporate culture initiatives, somehow making quarterly retention statistics sound fascinating.
"He's different," Lucia murmurs as we help Nonna plate the main course. "The way he talks about your work... it's like he's proud of you. Both sides of you."
Both sides. The corporate warrior and the woman who still cries at dog commercials. The industry critic and the person who genuinely wants to make things better. The professional and the romantic.
The parts Roberto always tried to separate, claiming I was "too much" when I was fully myself.
My phone buzzes again – another email from Roberto, this time about running into my old boss, the one who gave that promotion to Brad instead of me because I was "too aggressive" in meetings.
Looking through the kitchen door, I watch Alex gesture animatedly as he explains our latest inclusion programs to my father. He's not trying to dominate the conversation or prove his success. He's genuinely sharing his passion for change, giving me credit at every turn.
"He's got a cabin in the mountains," I find myself telling Lucia. "He invited me for the weekend."
"Alone?" Her eyebrows hit her hairline. "Just the two of you?"
"It's not?—"
"It is." She squeezes my arm. "And you deserve it. Deserve someone who wants all of you."
"Even the parts that throw champagne at CEOs?"
"Especially those parts. "
Back at the table, the conversation has turned to tech industry mental health. My latest blog post, though they don't know it's mine.
"It's starting important conversations," Alex is saying. "About real support versus corporate performative wellness. About letting people be human in professional spaces."
"Like letting them fall in love at work?" Nonna asks innocently.
"Nonna!"
"What? I read the online excerpts from that wellness journal. Very romantic, that Brad."
I choke on my wine. Alex just laughs, his hand finding mine again.
"Sometimes," he says, eyes meeting mine, "the best things happen when we stop trying to separate personal and professional happiness."
The way he's looking at me – like I'm fascinating and brilliant and beautiful all at once – makes my breath catch.
My phone buzzes one more time. Roberto again, probably with more baby shower guilt. But for the first time since our divorce, I don't feel that twist of inadequacy. That sense that I was too much, too ambitious, too everything.
Because the man beside me doesn't want me to be less. Doesn't need me to choose between being a corporate force and being vulnerable. Doesn't see my strength as a threat to his own.
"About this weekend," I say quietly while my family argues about dessert portions. "The cabin?"
"Yes?" His thumb traces patterns on my palm.
"Yes."
His smile could power the entire city.
"But," I add as Nonna appears with what appears to be enough tiramisu to feed an army, "if Keith starts a mountain revolution, I'm holding you personally responsible. "
"Fair enough." He accepts a massive portion from Nonna with perfect grace. "Though I'm more worried about your grandmother sending enough food for a revolutionary army."
"Oh, don't worry," Nonna pats his cheek. "I'm only packing you three types of pasta to take with you.”
I should be mortified. Should be running from the family interference and the implications and the way everyone's acting like this is already settled.
Instead, I find myself leaning into Alex's shoulder, watching my family fold him into their chaos like he's always belonged there.
Because maybe, at forty-two, I'm finally ready to stop choosing between the different parts of myself.
Maybe I'm ready to be loved for all of them.