“Luca Massimo, do not swear in my presence,” Mum scolded, walking over to the table and snagging a linen napkin, then waving it at me.
“I raised you not to eat like an animal, young man, and you should be sitting at the table with cutlery eating like a decent human being.”
Pointing my fork at her, I smirked but closed my mouth and continued chewing.
“I am using cutlery. See? As for living here, as I said, I’m not getting into this with you again. I’m meeting the boys for drinks in a little while, and I just need something to tide me over.”
Mum huffed, but I saw that she was at least letting go of her favourite argument.
“Beer and a bar meal, really Luca, what would your father say?”
Probably the same as you, but right now, I don’t give a shit.
I let my inner thoughts slide through to the keeper and instead shrugged and shoved another fork of pasta and meat into my mouth.
Twenty-nine years old and I was still getting lectures from my mother, still getting the third degree about how I lived my life. I loved my mum and my sisters but sometimes—
“Luca, you should be taking Naomi out for dinners and movies, not hanging out with those men in pubs with women of ill repute.”
“Mum, please stop,” I interrupted harsher than I intended. Seeing my mum shrink back from me caused shame to seep into me. Her insistence on pushing her friend’s daughter and me together all of a sudden my tipping point. The few dates that we had been on ended with one night in my bed … one night that I had not been able to perform. She tried, fuck, I tried, but there just wasn’t anything there to spark, I pretty much just went through the motions of sex, my dick not so much into it as Naomi had been. Eventually giving up on coming myself instead, I got her to climax as quickly as possible, doing anything to get it over and finished with. A pretty face and banging body weren’t all it took to start the party in my pants, so to speak. Nope, I wanted so much more than that. I wanted that spark, that certain fire from a lady, not someone who wanted to stay at home and bake biscotti, greeting me at the front door wearing pearls and heels.
I wasn’t my father, no matter how much Mum wished that I was.
Fuck.
Sliding the plate onto the bench, I quickly made my way to my mum, taking her in my arms and cuddling her slight frame to my chest–the tiny shudders of her body and the badly held in sob breaking my heart.
“Please don’t cry, Mum, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“I miss him, Luca, I want him here with us.” My heart squeezed painfully in my chest at the mention of my dad. The day he died, life for everyone in my family changed, no one’s more than my mother’s. She went from Suzy Homemaker, a mother who could and did do everything for her family, energetic, racing around after her kids ferrying them to one event and another to … nothing.
The day Dad died, Mum sat in her chair in the lounge room and stayed that way for months. She just sat and looked out the window at the lavender garden Dad had planted for her, just staring. Her church friends came by day after day and told her to sit, their advice pissed me off at the time, but the old ways and beliefs were too strong for me to penetrate with any sense. It took my sisters and I months, but we finally got her to leave the house, go to church rather than have Mass and Communion at home. Eventually those outings extended to shopping and visiting but she lost her drive and love of life, instead she chose to organise her children’s lives.
None of us escaped her battle of attack, including Holly and Sandy, only separated by sixteen months at the time of Dad’s death, followed by the youngest, Phoebe, having just turned eight. Thankfully the girls held Mum’s attention more than I did, with me in university and part-time working at the family business, I didn’t cop it as bad as they did. I had outside requirements and responsibilities to attend to, keeping me out of the house more often than not. The girls, being younger, had nothing but school and Mum. It was the four of them that suffered more than I did. Mum worked her magic and moulded each girl into a miniature version of herself, overbearing, nagging and caring, all wrapped up in pretty brunette packages.
Their objective in life was to piss me off. And to marry me off to Naomi. Mum wasn’t aware that I tried things with Naomi a year ago. We went out for the obligatory dinner and movie a few times, ended up in bed once. For me, it was like going through the motions of sex. We got naked, I kissed her and made her come. Naomi called it the best night of her life, and I called it a complete and utter disaster. She knew so little about men … about me, and she didn’t even notice that I faked my orgasm. The fact that I used a condom helped pull that subterfuge off, pulling out and tossed the rubber before she could manage to see anything. I made the right sounds, the right gestures, all with the wrong woman.
Slowly, I backed away from Naomi, not answering her texts with more than the necessary replies, not committing to a time to go out again. I felt like a fucking dog at the time for doing it, but hurting a woman’s feelings was not in my blood, and that was what would have happened if I continued to see her. Growing up in a household of females, I
