The only sound was the soft scrape of the tongs and Elio’s breathing.
“Now we eat,” Serena said.
She didn’t carry the pan to the table like a servant.
She set it in the middle of the reclaimed oak table and pulled out five chairs, then a sixth.
“Sit,” she told the boys. Not a plea. Not a command. An invitation.
Marco sat first.
Then Nico, sliding in so fast his knees hit the underside.
Elio climbed up beside Serena and didn’t let go of her sleeve.
Matteo was last. He stood for three full seconds, staring at the steaming pasta that looked exactly like the last meal his mother had made on a Sunday night before she complained of a headache and lay down on the kitchen floor and never got up.
He sat.
Serena served.
She gave Vittorio his plate last.
He didn’t pick up his fork.
He just looked at the carbonara, and his eyes filled.
Elio took a bite.
He chewed, swallowed, and his face crumpled.
But he didn’t cry out.
He whispered, “It tastes like hers.”
Matteo made a choked noise and shoved a forkful into his mouth as if to prove it wrong, and then his shoulders started to shake.
He didn’t stop eating even while tears cut through the butter still smeared on his cheek.
Nico ate with both hands on his fork, nodding furiously.
Marco ate silently, tears running openly, not wiping them.
Vittorio finally lifted his fork.
His hand trembled so badly the pasta slipped twice before he got it to his mouth.
He closed his eyes.
A single tear escaped and tracked down his cheek into his collar.
He didn’t hide it.
Mrs. Chen stood in the corner with her apron pressed to her mouth, weeping without sound.
The clock read 7:52.
They were all seated. They were all eating.
