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“You must see Milano at Christmas,” Signora Strazza insists. “We’ll take the train.”

I don’t have to think about it. I don’t want to be alone on Christmas, and the thought of a train ride is bliss. Don’t I always feel better after a train ride to anywhere? I put aside my ambivalence about my feelings for Angelo. The connection has faded now that Angelo has moved to Milan. Do I really want to stay in Carrara alone? Wouldn’t I love to see the cities in the north at this time of year? So, I do something I never would have done before moving to Italy.I am spontaneous. I look at my landlord and smile. “When are we leaving,signora?”

The train chugsnorth to Milan from Bologna. The Italian countryside in late December falls away from the tracks in sheets of charcoal and white like newsprint. The prattle of the wheels and the sway of the train car are soothing, so much so that Signora Strazza has fallen asleep across from me. She reminds me of my mother: selfless, yet happy to complain about all she has to do. And like my mother, Signora Strazza wears herself out until she is so exhausted, she could fall asleep anywhere.

I left Smokey with Signorina LeDonne for the holiday and I miss my kitten already. I have more than a twinge of guilt that I am with Angelo’s mother at Christmastime and not my own. I spent every Christmas of my life with Philly and Joe Baratta, a tradition I kept up even after I married. Bobby agreed to Midnight Mass with the Bilancias and Christmas Day with the Barattas.

My family needs a workhorse this time of year. I wonder if Connie or Joe took up the challenge. When I was home, I bought the Christmas tree, sawed off the trunk, put it in the stand, and decorated it. I’m worried about my mother going up and down those creepy cellar stairs to haul the strings of lights when she’s had her knee replaced. I don’t want my dad on that rickety ladder to the attic retrieving boxes of ornaments when he has a bum shoulder. Truthfully, I don’t even want them wandering the mall to shop for presents. I had them make their lists, then I went out and bought the gifts, wrapped them, and placed them under the tree. I doubt Connie has the time. But what about the cookies?

When I was growing up, baking holiday cookies was a production. We learned from our grandmothers by watching our mom bake with them. Connie and I were adept at rolling coconut balls, twistingScookies, and icing cutouts long before we mastered cursive handwriting. We stacked cookies on trays, wrapped them in cellophane, tied them with ribbons, and delivered them up and down the street. Who will do the baking and deliveries without me? Will they even bother? When the tradition of the holiday cookie tray goes, so does civilization.

I thought about sending my parents a Christmas card to break the ice, but I fear if I did, the veneer would crack and I’d plummet through the surface, drowning in a pool of my own unresolved issues. Therapy has given me floaties to swim against the tide, but they’re not effective long term. I am committed to change, and that takes work. More than one therapist has told me that I must forgive my parents in order to move forward. I haven’t been able to do that just yet, so until I know what to say, I will say nothing at all.

Therapy has taught me to think about how I communicate. My resolve doesn’t make being away from home on Christmas easy; in fact, it breaks my heart, one memory at a time. The happy holidays shared with my family are lovely memories until they overwhelm me and they’re buried in a blizzard of guilt like silver glitter in a snow globe. I long for home, but not enough to get on a plane. Besides, if I flew home, Uncle Louie wouldn’t be there to pick me up at the airport. It’s better if I don’t pretend that I can be happy under any circumstance this Christmas.

I scroll through my phone.

CONOR: Googs got two years.

JESS: Jail? OMG.

CONOR: Banking malfeasance and RICO.

JESS: He and Uncle Louie would’ve been in bunk beds.

CONOR: LOL.

Uncle Louie put me where I am today, and there is nothing tackier than making jokes at the expense of my uncle’s reputation. In my defense, I have justified moments of anger toward Uncle Louie. He put me in this position and died before he could fix it. Despite all that, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t ask myself,What would Louie Cap do?I miss him and the work we did together, but I can’t move forward until the tax situation (which he created!) is rectified. The operation of Cap Marble and Stone is suspended, like a slab of marble in midair between the boat and the Perth Amboy dock. I am lucky to make my living in Carrara drafting projects, but I miss working directly with the marble, the customers, and the installations. If I questioned my career path when I was working with Uncle Louie, I don’t anymore. I loved my job and I miss it. The FBI reached out a few weeks ago; they had questions about the deposits they found on Uncle Louie’s hard drive. I didn’t have any answers for them then and still don’t. I sigh loudly but Signora Strazza sleeps through it.

Outside the window, the landscape changes as we leave the hills of Tuscany behind and roll into the pewter fields at the foothills of the Alps. I remind myself why I came to Italy. I came here to escape my situation in hope of a better life: in fact, the old switcheroo of what my ancestors did when they emigrated to America. No matter how lonely I feel, as any expat abroad during the holidays would know, there are plenty of distractions to keep my mind off my troubles. I’m in the heart of my place of origin, and my life has not worked out as I planned, but I remain hopeful. I either have to accept the risk that comes with change because that’s where the lessons are, or I retreat into the cellar from whence I came.

“What did I miss?” Signora Strazza asks as she awakens.

“I’m solving all the world’s problems,” I joke.

“So, I will go back to sleep.” She grins.

“Let me ask you something. Are you sure I’m welcome at Angelo’s? I don’t want to be the weird extra girl during your family holiday. I can get a hotel room.”

“Nonsense! Angelo insisted I bring you along.”

A warm holiday feeling floats through me. Maybe this won’t be the worst Christmas of my life.

“You like my son?”

“He’s very nice,” I reply cautiously.

Signora Strazza nods knowingly.

Another meddling mother with an agenda? I can’t shake them.

“Will we see Dalia and her daughter?” I ask.

“Who knows? Those two. On and off like a spigot.”

“It isn’t any easier when the spigot is off and the water supply dries up. That’s what it’s like to be divorced.”

“I am sure you had your reasons for getting a divorce,” she says.