Vittoria was happy to oblige and when she lifted the second forkful to her mouth with what looked like a braised beef stew, her lips closed around it, her brows creased in thought and then, she stopped chewing. The gentle clink of the fork as it touched the side of her plate sounded louder to me and for a second, it looked like she was having a difficult time thinking, or breathing, or swallowing.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, concerned, before peering at my dad and accusing, “What did you do?”

Vittoria lifted her elbows to the table, closed her eyes and rested her forehead against her hands a moment, shaking her head. And it alarmed me enough to pick up her fork, scoop up some of the stew and shovel it into my mouth. The more I chewed, the more I realized it was just a stew. A regular stew. It had a rich wine-based tomato sauce, cubes of tender beef, thyme and a hint of sweetness provided by the stick of cinnamon I could see resting against a particularly juice piece of meat.

But then Vittoria sniffled and I sent a cutting glare to my father. His light smile told me there was nothing to worry about. After a moment, Tori reached out, took hold of her glass of water and sipped at it, swallowing the contents in her mouth. When her eyes met my dad’s, she was blinking back tears as she uttered shakily, “It tastes just like…” the words seem to stick in her throat.

“Your dads,” my father finished for her. She nodded brokenly and his smile widened. “He told me one night, over a glass of wine, here in this very room. He said the best beef ragu he ever made was by mistake and that his girls liked it so much that it became a favorite. Wasn’t long after your mom died, you see, and he was still mastering the cooking bench. I asked him where he screwed up and he said thought celery seed and cinnamon were interchangeable.”

Vittoria let out a watery laugh and the rest of the table smiled. All except Daniele.

A quiet moment passed before Papa Nunzio’s smile dissolved. “I wish I could bring him back for you, sweetheart. I really do.” The regret in his voice carried when he said, “He was my friend and I miss him very much.”

My wife and father exchanged looks of mutual sorrow and I slipped my arm around my wife’s back in a silent show of support, giving her the moment she required. But before long, the meal picked up again. Easy conversation was flowing and everything felt lighter.

I should have seen it coming. There was nothing more my brother enjoyed than making people uncomfortable. The truth was, I enjoyed it too, but not at the cost of my family’s happiness.