Chapter 4
Sebastian
Istare at the overflowing plate of lasagna my mamma has just placed in front of me. The portion is enough to feed two people, maybe three, but saying so would only result in a fifteen-minute lecture about how I'm "wasting away" at college.
"Mangia, Sebastiano," my mamma urges, already turning away to serve my father, who sits at the head of the table patiently waiting for her to feed her bambinos. "You're too skinny."
"I'm exactly the right weight for my height and age, Mamma," I answer automatically, knowing it's pointless.
"Medical books," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. "What do they know about an Italian man's proper size?"
I catch my sister Gabi's eye across the table, and she smirks.
At twenty-six, she's taken over most of the office management for Moretti Construction, and despite her petite frame, can intimidate men twice her size with a single raised eyebrow, a trait she's currently directing at me as if to say, "Just eat the food. "
My other sister, Sophia, seven months pregnant with her first child, is already halfway through her portion. She winks at me as she reaches for more garlic bread. Pregnancy has given her license to eat whatever she wants without our mamma's incessant monitoring, a freedom I'm jealous of.
"So," my father says after his first few bites, "Perkins Development called today. We got the bid for their new office complex."
"That's great, Dad," Sophia says, ever the diplomat.
"Twenty units, plus underground parking," he continues, pride evident in his voice. "Biggest contract this year."
"I negotiated an extra five percent over our initial quote," Gabi adds, and I can see she's pleased as she tries to sound casual. "Plus materials."
"Smart girl," my father nods approvingly, and Gabi practically glows. His approval is rare currency in our household.
I take another bite of lasagna, waiting for the inevitable pivot in conversation. Three, two, one...
"We could use another Moretti on the team for a project this size," he says, looking directly at me. "When are you done with these classes, Sebastian? Summer?"
And there it is.
"I'm still working on my degree, Dad," I say carefully, keeping my tone even and deliberately vague.
He waves his fork dismissively, a piece of meatball dangerously close to becoming airborne. "More tuition? For what? To work for some company that will own you?"
"To finish what I started," I say with forced patience. "We've discussed this."
"Books," he snorts. "They charge too much for these degrees and still don't teach you what you need to know.
When your Cousin Palo needed to learn plumbing for the family business, did he go to college?
No! He apprenticed under old man Ricci and learned more in six months than these professors teach you in four years. "
"And look at doctors," he continues, building momentum. "They charge too much and still can't fix half of what's wrong with people. When your Uncle Vito had his heart attack, what did those fancy doctors do? Nothing that his garlic and red wine hadn't been doing for years."
My mamma crosses herself quickly. "God rest his soul."
"God rest his soul," my sisters echo automatically.
I remain silent, having long ago given up explaining that preventative medicine and emergency cardiac care are not the same thing, or that Uncle Vito might still be alive if he'd followed his doctor's advice about his diet.
"The business is good, Sebastian," my father continues, undeterred. "We build things. Real things you can touch that last. Not like these..." he gestures vaguely, "papers and theories you study."
He's gathering steam now, and I glance longingly at the door.
"I built this business with these hands.
" He holds up his calloused palms, the permanent half-moon of dirt under his nails a badge of honour he's worn since emigrating from Sicily at sixteen.
"Started with nothing but a hammer and determination. Now look at us!"
I've heard this speech so many times I could recite it from memory.
Started with nothing. Hammer and determination.
America, land of opportunity. Hard work and sacrifice.
Building a legacy for his children. The specific words change, but the message remains constant: Why would I choose anything other than the family business?
"The lasagna is excellent, Mamma," I say, deliberately changing the subject.
"New basil in the sauce," she says, pleased. "From the garden."
My father, momentarily derailed, takes another large bite. "Best in the neighbourhood."
The conversation shifts to safer territory: Sophia's pregnancy, a problem with one of the construction-site managers, and neighbourhood gossip about the Palmieris' son finally getting married. "At thirty-five! His poor mother!"
Thirty-five and unmarried was tragedy enough. Thirty-five and gay? At least he's marrying a woman. What would Ma say? "My Sebastian, he brings home a nice doctor... named William."
I nod at appropriate intervals, offer brief comments when required, and focus on eating enough to satisfy my mamma without making myself sick.
After dinner, I automatically follow my mamma and sisters into the kitchen, gathering plates as I go.
"Sebastian, leave those!" my father calls. "The game is starting. Sophia, your husband is already in the den."
Sophia's husband, Rick, a quiet accountant who looks perpetually terrified of my father, offers me a small wave from the doorway. Gabi doesn't have a husband; instead, a rotating cast of boyfriends, none of whom last long enough to earn dinner invitations.
"I'll help Mamma, Papa," I say, continuing to stack dishes.
He makes a disapproving sound. "Football’s starting. The university team is doing an exhibition with State. It's a big game."
"You go ahead," I answer. "I'll be in after we finish."
He mutters quietly in Sicilian so I don't fully catch it but it sounds suspiciously like "not right" before disappearing into the den.
In the kitchen, my Mamma has already filled the sink with soapy water. My sisters flank her, one drying, one putting away, moving with the smooth rhythm of ladies who've done this a thousand times.
"You don't have to help, Sebastiano," my mamma says, even as she hands me a sponge. "This is women's work."
"It's just dishes, Mamma," I say, the familiar argument as comfortable as an old sweater. "Everyone eats, everyone can clean."
She makes a "tsk" sound but doesn't push further, seemingly pleased to have me in her domain for a while longer.
We work quietly together for a few minutes, with football sounds coming from the den. My father yells now and then, his voice mixing with the splashing of dishes in the sink.
"How are your classes, Sebastiano?" my mamma asks, her voice casual, which immediately puts me on alert.
"Fine," I answer automatically. "Busy."
"And the medical school applications? You are going ahead with this plan, yes? You have chosen where to apply?"
I freeze, a half-washed plate in my hand. "How did you—"
My sisters both snort in unison.
"Mamma knows everything," Gabi says, not looking up from the pot she's drying.
"Everything," Sophia echoes, one hand on her pregnant belly.
Mamma takes the plate from my stunned fingers and continues washing as if she hasn't just revealed she knows one of the things I've hidden from them.
I never told them I was going to med school next year. I haven't told anyone that I've already applied to a cardiac program in Europe.
"I... I haven't decided yet," I stammer. "There are several good programs, but it depends on..."
"Johns Hopkins is the best," my mamma states with authority. "Or Stanford. You should go to the best, but not so far away."
I stare at her, my brain trying to catch up with what's happening. "You've... researched medical schools?"
She gives me a look that is both offended and pitying. "You think I don't know my own son? I don't see how your eyes light up when you talk about medicine. That I don’t see the anatomy books under your bed when I visit your apartment?"
"You look under my bed?" Horror floods my voice at the idea. Every muscle in my body locks up as I cycle through what else might be under there.
Behind me, Sophia snorts so hard she chokes. Gabi's already wheezing, slapping the counter. "Mamma still checks—"
"I'm your mamma. I clean," she says simply, but I swear there's a bit of mischief in her eyes.
"But Papa thinks—"
"Your Papa thinks what he wants to think," she interrupts, handing me another plate. "He built his business from nothing. He wants his only son to carry it forward."
"But what about Gabi and Sophia?" I ask, genuinely confused. "They're already running half the company between them."
A heavy silence falls over the kitchen.
"When will Papa stop asking when I'm coming to work for him?" I ask the question directed at no one in particular.
My sisters exchange glances, and my mamma sighs deeply, her hands stilling in the soapy water.
"Your Papa is..." she pauses, searching for the right words, "well, your Papa. He will figure it out eventually."
She dries her hands on a dish towel, then reaches out to pat my cheek, then Gabi's, then Sophia's. "I have tried to talk to him, but he needs to figure it out on his own."
"So, never," Gabi mutters.
"He will get it soon," Mamma says with more confidence than her expression suggests. She turns back to me. "Now, about those medical schools. I have made a list."
She pulls a folded piece of paper from her apron pocket and hands it to me.
It's damp at the edges from the dishwasher, but I can make out her neat handwriting listing medical schools in what appears to be order of preference by how close they are to home.
The notes about their specialties come second.
"Mamma..." I'm at a loss for words.
"Also, I have been saving," she adds, turning back to the dishes. "A little each week from the grocery money. For application fees. For tuition."
"I have scholarships," I protest weakly.
"Scholarships don't pay for everything," she dismisses. "And medical school is expensive. Stanford, you can bring your laundry to me on the weekends."
I don't know whether to laugh or cry. For years, I've been hiding my medical ambitions, believing my entire family wanted me in construction. Now I discover that my mamma not only knew all along but has been secretly planning for my dream in secret.
"Does Papa know what you know?" I ask.
"Your Papa knows I know everything," she says with supreme confidence. "He pretends not to notice because it would frighten him to admit it."
Gabi laughs out loud at this, and even Sophia cracks a smile.
"He'll come around, Seb," Sophia assures me, awkwardly patting my arm around her pregnant belly. "Eventually."
"After you've graduated from medical school, established a successful practice, and cured cancer," Gabi adds with her characteristic bluntness. "Maybe."
"Gabriella," Mamma scolds, but there's no heat behind it.
We finish the dishes, and I fold the list of medical schools carefully into my pocket. Before I can join the men in the den, my phone buzzes with a text. It's from JP.
JP
Runner-boy, you coming home tonight? Max built something terrifying and wants guinea pigs.
I smile despite myself. JP knows my Sunday dinner routine and the state it usually leaves me in.
JP
Parents that bad?
Comes another text before I can reply to the first.
I type back quickly
Me
Going for a run first. Be there in ~90.
JP
We'll have the fire extinguisher ready. And beer. I'll drive you back for your car later.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. "I have to go," I tell my mamma. "Study group."
She nods, understanding in her eyes. "Take some food." Before I can protest, she's already packing a container with enough leftovers to feed my entire friend group. "For your skinny friends, too."
I kiss her cheek, accept the heavy container, and make my brief goodbyes to my papa and Rick in the den. I endure one last pointed comment about missing "quality family time" for "more books."
Slipping into the main floor bathroom, I quickly change into the running gear I have stashed here for nights when I need to run away.
I'm sure a shrink would have a field day with this. I chuckle to myself as I change.
Outside, the crisp January air is a relief after the stuffy warmth of the house. I take a deep breath, feeling the tension in my shoulders begin to dissipate. My car is parked at the curb, but I know I won't be driving it tonight.
I need to run.