![]() ![]() Mom hands over a manila envelope and then returns to her seat. Not having any clue what she’s up to, I hold in a laugh when she bounces back into the room with a huge smile plastered across her face. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes at Mom’s receding backside. It’s good, so I never complain.Īs soon as the last piece of heavenly creaminess melts on my tongue, Mom springs from her chair. A nontraditional dessert she insists on serving, stating it correlates with the Italian theme. I lean back against the chair and wait for her famous tiramisu. I sigh, all too familiar with Mom’s stubbornness. Mom lets out a laugh and then winks at me. "You know, as your only child, I love being home. Wiping the remaining marinara sauce away, I raise an eyebrow. ![]() I shake my head and hide my chuckle behind the napkin. I can’t be excited that my number one daughter is home with her momma? Her fingers spread against her breastbone as if she’s shocked. What gives? I slurp the remaining noodles on the plate and wait for an explanation. My eyes narrow at her inability to sit still. She’s more animated than usual as if there’s an ulterior motive. Mom’s way too excited for our unconventional Thanksgiving meal of homemade spaghetti and meatballs. ![]()
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