“There’s always time for love,” she insisted, like she was imparting some deep wisdom.

“I have a date with the drop-off line at school,” Angi countered, then glanced at the clock on the wall. “Drew, come on,” she called as she glanced above her. “You need to eat breakfast so we can go, buddy.”

“Don’t call him that.” Her mother tsked. “Such a ridiculous name.”

Angi gritted her teeth. “It’s not ridiculous.”

“He looks like an Anthony,” her mother said.

Where was the bottle of headache medicine when Angi needed it? She’d been having the debate about her son’s name since the day of his birth. Bianca adored her grandson, but she couldn’t understand why he didn’t have a traditional Italian name, something to honor an older relative or dead ancestor. Angi had tried—for years—to explain to her mother that she liked the name Andrew and wanted her child to choose how much he wanted to embrace his heritage, not have his identity defined by a name. Luckily, Bianca never voiced her disappointment in front of Drew, but it was an ongoing, and useless, debate with Angi.

“Now, Andrew,” Angi shouted, then turned her attention to her mom. “I’m meeting with Aldo Caferno to discuss our monthly order before we open, and then I’ll be back to take you to the doctor after lunch. He’s charging way too much for their meats.”

“He’s a good boy,” her mom said. “We’ve been doing business with the family for years, so I’m sure they are giving us a fair price. How old is Aldo now?”

“He’s married old.” Angi dumped her coffee into a travel mug, cursing when it sloshed over the rim.

“His younger brother, Artie, is still single. Too much caffeine makes you jittery,” her mother said. “We can talk about potential dates when you get back.”

“No men.” Angi said the words like a plea.

“I’m a man,” Andrew pointed out as he came into the kitchen. He wore a striped sweatshirt and baggy jeans that she knew were hitched in at the waist by the growth buttons sewn into the fabric. His backpack looked like it might be heavy enough to make him topple over, but Angi knew her son was stronger than he appeared.

“My best little man.” Angi made to ruffle his hair as he walked toward the table, but he ducked out of reach.

“I’m not that little.”

Her heart stuttered at the sound of defiance in his tone. “Getting bigger every day,” she agreed.

“Give your nonna a kiss.” Bianca opened her arms wide, shooting Angi an accusatory glance over Andrew’s shoulder. “My strong Italian prince.”

Next, Angi could just imagine her mother blaming Andrew’s social issues on the name she’d given him.

She wondered if it was actually possible to grind her teeth to dust.

As Andrew ate his breakfast, Angi finished emptying the dishwasher, started a load of laundry and then kissed her mother’s forehead, the scent of Shalimar taking her back to more innocent times. “What do you think about a hair appointment next week?” She finger combed her mom’s curls. “Fresh highlights and a trim.”