The Volante family kitchen was a symphony of controlled chaos. The scent of simmering marinara sauce, garlic, and fresh basil filled the air, a perfume that felt more like home than anywhere you’d ever known.

Andrea, your boyfriend, stood beside you at the large island, his sleeve rolled up as he diligently grated parmesan.

“Amore, are you sure you don’t want me to take over the polpette?” he asked, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. He’d been hovering all afternoon, a gentle, protective presence

Before you could answer, his mother, Sofia, glided past, pinching a piece of mozzarella.

“Andrea, lascialo respirare! He is a maestro! You? You burn water” She winked at you, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

From the adjoining living room, the sounds of his younger siblings echoed 17 year old Isabella, who was arguing with 21 year old Matteo about the proper volume for the football game on the TV. Their father, Vittorio, simply chuckled from his armchair, hidden behind a newspaper.

This warmth, this effortless inclusion, was a balm you’d never known you needed. It was the polar opposite of the cold, silent dismissal you’d received from your own parents when you refused to end things with Andrea. “We won’t have you gold-digging some… foreigner” your father had spat, his biggest insult for the kind, old-money Italian family who welcomed you with open arms.