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I watch as Angelo makes his mother comfortable on the chaise longue. He pulls up a wooden stool and sits next to her. A mother and her son in a private moment of understanding can be as inspiring as a painting by Tiepolo or as exquisite as a sculpture by Brunelleschi. How can there be beauty in suffering, and why do I see it so plainly? The love of a good mother might be the highest form of art because there is line, form, and revelation. And now that the cloud cover over Piazza Alberica has lifted and the pattern of swirls of lavender toile have drifted away, there is light. I slip out the door quietly. Mothers are either holding us together or falling apart themselves. I record a few thoughts about Signora Strazza in the notes app before revisiting a day I return to in order to understand it.

Mom had textedme her grocery list. I had one final stop before I had every ingredient I needed to make Sunday dinner. The bells on the door jingled merrily as I slipped inside Croce’s. I imagined the scent of buttery dough and sharp cheese was the scent of Italy, and I couldn’t wait to find out for myself. It wouldn’t be long before Uncle Louie and I were in themotherland. I walked through the narrow aisles and loaded the basket. I splurged on small, exotic jars of tapenade, sun-dried tomatoes, and green olive paste on my way to check out.Crostini per tutti!

“Jess? I almost didn’t know you.”

My heart sank. “Mrs. Bilancia.”

“You can call me Mom. Always. Or even Babe, if Mom seems like too much.” She looked me up and down. “You’ve gotten so thin,” Babe marveled.

Mr. Croce had set out a free tray of focaccia by the cash register with Olio della Donna to sample before purchasing. Mrs. B made no secret that she had been on a diet for the bulk of her sixty-seven years of life, but like me, she couldn’t resist a carb. We dipped the soft bread in the olive oil, which I thanked God for because I couldn’t talk when I chewed.

I couldn’t recall a single conversation with Babe Bilancia that didn’t involve weight. Hers. Mine. Anyone’s. She’d cornered Lisa Natalizio, Debi Martinelli, and me at the crowning of the May Queen in sixth grade and assured us that we’d slim down when puberty hit.

She picked up a napkin from the stack next to the bread and daintily wiped her hands. “I’m glad to run into you. You know there are no accidents. This was meant to happen.”

“Mrs. Bilancia, we live within a two-block radius of each other in a small town.”

“Jess, my son is a fine young man. But Bobby is a broken boy. You really took a piece out of him when you left him. I don’t know what happened with you two and I don’t ask because, frankly, he is a person of good humor and he has a lot of responsibilities at the shop now that my husband retired, and I don’t want to pile on. But I wish you two would work it out.Divorce decrees are signed on paper for a reason. They can be shredded or burned or flushed; you can even line a birdcage with them. You move back in together, and we’ll all pretend that none of this happened.”

“I am so sorry for causing you any heartache. You were a wonderful mother-in-law.”

“I tried.” As her blue eyes flushed with tears, she looked like she was swimming underwater. “It’s so nice of you to say so. Your mother and I have agonized about you two. We pray. We scheme. We try to think about what we can do to help get you kids out of the ditch and back on the track.”

I leaned against the counter because if I didn’t, my legs might have buckled, and I would fall into the barrel of pickles next to the checkout. “Mymother?”

“I’m grateful that we have each other to commiserate. To share our pain. We’re grieving. I gave her a podcast to download to help her cope. Anderson Cooper’s. It’s been a Godsend.”

I felt violated—I listened to thesamepodcast as my mother and former mother-in-law.

“Is this all?” the cashier said to me.

“Yes, yes. This is it. And the ravs. Under Baratta.”

The cashier disappeared to the back room.

I got up on my toes and looked after her.Come back. Don’t go. I’m being eaten alive out here.

“Your mother and I tried to stay out of your business. We aren’t meddling mothers-in-law, you know. We just love you both and want the best for you. Your mother did mention that the basement doesn’t suit you and she’s terrified you’ll leave the house and get an apartment all alone and end up like one of those women who joins too many book clubs and shares cat videos on TikTok at all hours of the night.”

“I don’t have a cat.” My head pounded. Was she done?

Babe went on. “If Philly had her way, you’d get back together with Bobby and stop all this nonsense.”

The cashier returned with the sleeves of ravioli and slid them into a paper bag.

“Did you order enough? I can’t get away with less than ten sleeves.” Babe looked off into the middle distance. “Sunday dinner isn’t the same. We want you back, honey. Bobby is like a lost ball in high weeds without you.” She held up her hands like she was under arrest. “You are always welcome to come back to us. No questions asked.”

“I don’t have any questions,” I whispered.

“Well,” Babe said, “I said what I needed to say, and you know how I feel. Your mother has been so good to Bobby. Makes him chicken cutlets and drops them off in his freezer. We’re all praying for a reconciliation.”

I nodded, because if I spoke I would throw up. I handed the cashier my credit card.

“Thank you,” I whispered. I picked up my bags and rushed out the door as though the shop were on fire. Once outside, I climbed into my car and set the ravioli sleeves on the front seat. I placed two fingers on my carotid artery. This was what a stroke must feel like. My veins were exploding inside my body. I looked out the window and tried to remember where the new urgent care facility was in Lake Como. I took my fingers off my neck to answer the phone.

“Did you get the ravs?” Mom asked pleasantly.

I could barely speak. “Yes.”