Antonio turned to Peter. “And you must be the little boy who used to run around here, trying to steal biscotti from the kitchen.”
Peter flushed. The memories flooded back—warm nights filled with laughter, his father’s booming voice echoing through the restaurant.
Antonio’s voice softened. “Your mother and father used to sit right there, by the window, every week. They’d hold hands, share stories. Your mother would always ask for extra Parmesan, and your father would always pretend to be shocked at how much she used.”
Eleanor chuckled softly, wiping at her eyes.
Antonio’s tone grew more serious. “You know, son… When you’re young, you think there’s always time for family. But one day, you realize there isn’t.”
Peter’s jaw tightened.
Antonio leaned in. “Whatever’s on that phone will still be there tomorrow. But your mother? This moment? It won’t.”
Peter stared at Antonio, then at his mother’s fragile frame. A wave of guilt washed over him, heavy and suffocating. The phone in his hand suddenly felt like dead weight.
“Mom,” Peter whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”
Eleanor’s watery eyes met his, confusion mingled with relief.
Peter stood, rounded the table, and knelt beside her wheelchair. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t matter. Work’s been overwhelming, and I’ve let it turn me into someone I’m not.”
Eleanor’s lip trembled. “Oh, Peter.”
He took her hand gently. “You’re not a burden. You’re my mother. And I want to be here—with you.”
Eleanor smiled through her tears, squeezing his hand tightly. Antonio, satisfied, stood and gave Peter a nod before returning to the counter.
