Everyone was squished around my kitchen island. We men were all standing as the women took the four available barstools while we enjoyed another home cooked meal courtesy of Momma and Papa Amatucci. I was willing to front the money to give them their own restaurant. Or just become my personal chefs.
"Maria, Angelo, this was the best meal I've had in ages. Thank you so much for letting me join you," my mom said as the Amatucci kids cleared the table. She patted her belly. "My husband is going to be so jealous."
Momma's eyes widened. "You must take a plate to him." She rose from her barstool and bustled around my kitchen. I was fairly certain she knew it better than I did and I'd lived here for the past five years.
Mom came over, brushed a kiss to my cheek. "I'm going to steal your girl
