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“It’s Italy, sis,” Uncle Louie corrects her.

“That’s my dream board.” My voice breaks. For someone who draws for a living, the collage is an amateur attempt at self-realization. I feel naked. Exposed.

“Alexa, you are not to go into Auntie’s personal things. Take it back downstairs,” Connie reprimands her daughter. My niece looks as though she may cry.

“It’s okay. I’ll show you how to make one later, Alexa.” I ladle the ravs out of the boiling salted water and onto a serving platter.

“What’s that board all about?” my mother asks.

Now that the dream board has been revealed without my consent, I might as well share that I’m seeking enlightenment, not that it’s any of their business. “It was an exercise in visualization. I’m in therapy.”

“What?” my mother shrieks.

“Therapy is a good thing, Ma,” Katie says.

“Depends on the doctor.” Diego nods. “But if he has you making collages, that sounds creative.”

“She.A lady doctor.” I ladle the marinara onto the ravioli. “Online.”

My mother dabs her brow with a cocktail napkin. “You’re goingonline and talking to strangers about your problems? What about Father Belaynesh?” Mom asks. “He’s local. Can’t you talk to him?”

“I’m not going to a priest.”

“There isn’t any problem they haven’t heard in a confessional,” Dad says.

“They haven’t heard mine,” I assure him.

“Well, a priest won’t charge you,” Mom says.

“I don’t think it’s about the money. Is everything okay, Jess?” my brother asks.

My sister jumps in. “I think it’s good. Jess has been through a lot. Sometimes you need an outside perspective from a total stranger who couldn’t pick you out of a lineup at the police station.”

“Thank you, Connie.” I can always count on my sister to support any mental health remedies. She went into a saltwater floatation tank after she had Alexa. There aren’t enough soaking tanks on earth to heal my issues. My family doesn’t have a clue about me.

“Board or no board, your sister is going to Italy with Louie and she’s not taking any of us with her,” Mom announces.

“Another time,” I remind Mom. “Italy isn’t going anywhere.”

“I don’t understand what we did wrong.”

I look at my sister and implore her to help shut Mom down before I lose it.

“I think it’s wonderful. Jess has never been to Italy,” Connie jumps in. “She’s wanted to go all of her life. When we were growing up, she had a map of Italy over her bed and a poster of an Italian soccer team on our closet door. Did you ever watch a soccer game in your life?”

I nod that I haven’t. “I just thought the guys on the team were cute.”

“That’s as good a reason as any to hang a poster,” Uncle Louie says diplomatically. “I had a Loni Anderson in my office.”

“I made him take it down.” Aunt Lil winks at me.

Connie goes on. “Jess majored in Italian culture. She didn’t get to study abroad. It’s time. Let her go.”

“Dinner is ready. Please call everybody to the table.” I grate Parmigiano-Reggiano with a vengeance onto the ravioli.

We move into the dining room, taking our seats. Everyone but me, of course, as I am not only the cook but the waitress as well. My father takes his seat at the head of the table. I place the ravioli in the center of the table and set the serving spoon near Connie. From the sideboard, I lift the serving dish of broccoli rabe, placing it on the table. Mom rises from her chair at the table. “What can I do?”

“Nothing. I got it.”