The Sicilian Daughter
A family saga of heritage, identity, and self-discovery.
Gaby, a woman in her mid-thirties, must balance the different cultures of her childhood and adult life, juggle loyalties to her family, accept her family’s past, and discover her own identity to chart her way forward in this family saga.
As Gaby prepares to marry her partner, Russ, she shuttles between her current home in Boston and her childhood home in the Bronx, where she once again faces her mother’s familiar and unwelcome expectations. While in the Bronx, memories from childhood resurface as Gaby navigates her evolving relationships with her mother, grandmother, aunt, and cousin. In a short time, she begins to re-examine her past and the lives of the women who came before her, uncovering long-buried family secrets. What she uncovers forces Gaby to confront a devastating tragedy that will change her life forever. As past and present collide, she must reconcile the cultures that shaped her, face painful truths about her family, and decide who she wants to become.
But when everything she thought she understood about her family begins to unravel, will Gaby have the courage to choose her own future?
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Chapter 1: Coming Home
I have been here many times. Rays of understanding piercing dark thoughts. The darkness is born from growing up as someone not quite me. Pure feeling always lost in shoulds and musts and must nots.
I drive up to the house where I was raised, still the same after all these decades save the short rod-iron fence around the postage stamp front of the property. The two strips of pavement are meant to accommodate the wheels of a car.
A long concrete flight of stairs is topped by a wide porch. Red brick saltbox structure, white- painted wood bunting hugging the roofline. The house is warm and welcoming.
I park in front, my antennae tuned for judgment and unsolicited advice. I meet my mother inside the screen door and melt into a huge bear hug, one of her specialties. She holds me at arm’s length, inspects my eyes, tests the sincerity of my smile.
She once told a much younger daughter: I never know what you’re thinking— you never talk to me!
I smell braciola, the thin slices of beef rolled with garlic, simmering in spaghetti sauce. I make my way inside, run the water from the tap until it’s cold and fill a glass. I tip it toward my mother, in silent query. She shakes her head.
She reaches for my hand as we settle ourselves at the table. Morgan’s eight unexpected puppies frolic, challenging our footing. Reaching down, I lift the soft- furred Black Velvet to my face. His littermate Cinnamon Toast nuzzles my ankle.
“Your trip was good? You hungry I bet. It’ll be ready in about ten minutes. What kind of macaroni you want? Not too much. You got to be good for the wedding.” Strike one. I ignore it.
“Smells great, Ma. Penne?”
“Sure.” She has the pot of water on the stove and the penne out of the cupboard in seconds.
“You still like Boston?” she asks. Any plans to move back?” I’ve been in Boston fifteen years. I’m not moving back.
“I’m good. Not looking to relocate.”
“Russell?”
“He’s pretty happy too.”
“He should be! You living together before you marry. Why you doing that?” Strike two.
She insists. “I didn’t raise you that way.” I want to ask: “What way?” but I have lots of experience down the maternal rabbit hole. I refrain also from reminding her that she started raising me—whatever way— some thirty- five years ago.
“Ah! The water’s boiling. Sure you want penne? I have rigatoni, spaghetti.”
“What do you want, Ma?”
“Me?” She smiles, pretends to be easygoing. “You know me: I’m good with anything.”
Stirring the pasta, she shows me the back of her neatly tied apron.
