My mother is the master of picking up on things I won’t do for myself.
Like tonight, for example. I never would have even entertained the idea of throwing myself a celebration dinner. I would have simply let the news travel naturally. My mom, on the other hand, would never miss an opportunity to celebrate me or my triumphs. It’s not just me she’s like this with either.
There are some women who were made to be moms and Susan Domenico is one of them. There were always chocolate chip cookies in the cookie jar for us and the friends we’d bring over after school. Our home became the neighborhood hangout spot. It wasn’t uncommon for our dinner for six to turn into a dinner for ten or more while we were growing up.
And, my mother never batted an eye.
It was always “no big deal” to boil another pot of water for more pasta or make a few more turkey and cheese pinwheel wraps when I came home with half the soccer team after a game. She always had snacks on hand for the boys and their friends for Saturday night video game tournaments in the den. In the summer, our garage fridge was always stocked up with extra waters and frozen ice pops. As we got older, there were extra bobby pins, tampons, and hairspray bottles in the bathroom closest for any girl who needed them before a school dance.
Anyone that walked through our front door was instantly treated like one of her kids. So much so, that most of my friends had started calling her “Mama Sue”—a nickname affectionately given to her by Archer.
I always appreciated her, especially after spending several nights at my friends’ houses. It only took a few sleepovers to realize not everyone has a mom like mine. It took becoming a mother myself though, to fully understand just how much she had given while raising us.
Which is why when she bursts into tears at the sight of me, I place the coffee down on the kitchen counter and walk right into her open arms. I manage to fight the tears pooling in my own eyes as she holds me in her arms, pulling me back to tell me how proud she is of me.
And then I see my father standing in the doorway.
“There’s my girl!” he exclaims, his booming voice filled with pride as he joins us in the kitchen.
I know parents aren’t supposed to play favorites. And my mom doesn’t. She has her own special relationship with each of us. But my dad on the other hand? I’m his baby. Even though both of my brothers are younger than me. Even though my sister was his first-born. Somehow, and I’ll never know why or how, I’ve always had a tighter hold on my dad’s heart.
“Hi, Pop.” I smile, my voice shaky as he beams down at me. “I hope it’s okay, but I told Archer to come by.”
All three of the Domenico men stand tall at just over six feet. At five feet, six inches, I’m right in between both of my parents. As far as the rest of our physical characteristics, my siblings and I are almost identical. We all got our dad’s olive complexion and our mom’s blonde hair. We all have the same dimples in our cheeks. The almond shape of our dark brown eyes is the same—the shape passed down from our mother, the color given to us by our father.
Beyond anything he passed down to us physically, Anthony Domenico gave all four of his children his work ethic. Our generous hearts and the willingness to drop anything for anyone in our lives is something we all inherited from our mother. If you ask him, my dad will say we got our stubbornness from our mom too, but we all know every ounce of it comes from him.
“So, is anyone going to tell us what’s going on?” my younger brother Giovanni asks, looking back and forth between me, my parents, and my sister—who’s now wiping tears from her eyes, too.
“Yeah, come on. Spill it. I left the office early,” Luca, the youngest of our family, says. He quickly adds, “And it wasn’t just because Ma promised Giorgio’s.”
It’s not lost on me during all of this commotion that my daughter is watching every move I make. She knows I had a meeting today, but that’s all she knows. I didn’t want to tell her and get her hopes up in case it didn’t work out. It’s why I didn’t tell my brothers or anyone else in the family either.
Handing my mom and sister their iced coffees, I apologize to my dad and brothers. “I would have gotten you guys something if I had known everyone was going to be here by the time I showed up.”
“I’m not worried about the coffee,” Luca says, waving a hand. “I’m worried because the last time Ma called us all together for Giorgio’s on a Friday night was to tell us Pop needed heart surgery.”
“I do not need surgery!” I assure everyone, making sure to look at Lina. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
“I’d say everything is more than fine,” my sister says with a laugh, shrugging when our mom shoots her a look of warning.
“So, I didn’t want to say anything before I knew for sure,” I start, my eyes jumping from person to person. “But I sent in a submission to an open casting call for Food Network. I was selected for my own show and I’ve already signed the contract. Halfway Homemade will have ten episodes in the pilot season and we’ll renegotiate the contract if the network opts for a second.”
“Are you fucking with us?” Giovanni asks, earning himself a pop on the back of his head from our dad. We might be grown adults, but the one thing my dad has never let up on—no matter how old we are—is showing respect around my mother. Which, in his eyes, includes us not cursing.
“No.” I laugh. “Actually, Gigi came to the meeting today and really helped me out,” I say, turning to Lina to let her know Ana had been there. “I’m going to need your help to pick out a thank you gift.”
“You’re really going to be on TV?” Lina asks.
“I’m really going to be on TV,” I confirm. “But that also means I have to quit my job at the school. I’ll still take you every day, but Mimi might end up picking you up here and there, if that’s okay.”
Being so wrapped up in the idea of possibly having a show, I hadn’t gotten as far as the game plan if it all worked out. In my contract, I made sure to put in that I couldn’t start until eight thirty so that I could still be the one to take Lina to school every morning. It was important to me to make sure as much of our day-to-day lives could remain unchanged.
Rolling her eyes playfully, my mother laughs and nods. “It’s been a few years since I’ve maneuvered my way around the school pick-up line, but I think we’ll manage just fine, right, Leen?” she says, winking at Lina. Then, she motions for my dad to grab the Giorgio’s menu out of the kitchen drawer he’s standing next to. “Now, let’s talk pizza. What does everyone want?”
Even though it’s the same order every time, my mom always asks what everyone wants.
After they rattle off their orders—an extra pepperoni each for Luca and Giovanni, a margherita for Lina, a green pepper and onion for Valentina and me to share, and a sausage pizza for my parents—my father pulls out his wallet.
“I’d like to take care of dinner tonight,” I tell my dad, lowering my voice before adding in, “The signing bonus was deposited into my account already.”
“Absolutely not. You are not paying for your own celebration pizzas,” he argues, shaking his head.