[POV SWITCH: RICHARD RUSSO]
I woke to a soft breath tickling my cheek. Mum was already up, wide-eyed with a lazy smile, staring down at me.
"Morning, sweetheart. It's your birthday." She said while poking my cheek.
I blinked before pushing myself up to sit. Spreading my arms out, I replied.
"Muh-me up."
The words weren't perfect, but they were enough to get the message across.
She chuckled and scooped me up into her arms. "Well, look who's getting better at talking," she said proudly, kissing my temple as she carried me toward the stairs.
Today marked one full year since my reincarnation into this world.
One year of this new life, this new body, this strange new world. I've long since accepted it as real—more real than the life I left behind.
Though I'll admit, pretending to be a baby all year has been exhausting. Smiling through the gibberish, crawling around, getting excited about spoons. But I've done it. And it's worth it every time I see Mum, Babbo, or Nan light up at some tiny thing I "learned" to do.
Even in diapers, I was laying the groundwork.
I've come a long way from who I was.
There's not much you can do as a baby. You eat, you cry, you shit yourself. Rinse and repeat. But it's left me with a lot of time to think. A lot of time to plan.
What do I want to do this time around? Who do I want to become?
I haven't decided completely. But with the knowledge I've brought into this life, carefully timed investments and a few nudges in the right places, my family's future could be secured for generations.
We reached the bottom of the stairs, and I heard voices coming from the sitting room.
Babbo and Grandad were both getting ready to go to work.
Babbo was adjusting his boots by the door, his dark curls still wet from washing. Grandad had his butcher's apron slung over one arm and was tucking a sandwich into his coat pocket.
When we crossed the doorway, Babbo looked up, a smile rising as he walked towards us.
"Buon compleanno, piccolo uomo," he whispered into my ear.
"Bab-bo," I replied, giving him a toothless grin.
He leaned in close, pressing a hand to the back of my head. "Ti voglio bene."
Then, he kissed Mum's cheek, grabbed his coat, and headed for the door. Grandad followed, glancing back with a smirk.
"Mind the boy," he called, adjusting his flat cap. "He's trouble."
"Always," Mum answered with a grin.
After they left, Mum sat down, placing me on her lap.
A couple of seconds later, Nan came through. "Have John and Enzo left then?"
"Yeah, just went a second ago", Mum replied.
"Nan-ny!" I shouted out.
Nan smiled as she stepped into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Well, if it isn't our little gentleman of the hour."
I reached toward her with open arms and a grin.
She took me from Mum's lap with practised ease, balancing me on her hip as she kissed my cheek.
"You're getting heavy," she muttered affectionately. "Like your grandad—solid as a brick."
Mum laughed lightly from the sofa, leaning back with a tired yawn. "He was up half the night. Kept kicking off the blanket, even with the hot bottle."
"Trying to escape already, are you?" Nan teased, poking my nose. "You'll have plenty of time to cause mischief, don't you worry."
I cooed with exaggerated innocence. May as well lean into the role.
Nan set me in the high chair and began sorting through the breakfast things. Soft-boiled egg. Toast fingers. A dab of jam if I behaved. It was my birthday, after all.
While I clumsily mashed toast into my mouth, Mum took a moment to sit beside me, sipping at her tea with both hands wrapped around the mug. Her hair was tied back with one of Dad's old handkerchiefs, and her sleeves were rolled high. She looked tired, but that gentle tired that comes with contentment.
This morning, the house felt slower and calmer. Even the usual rattle of the railway seemed softer as if the world was letting us have a quiet hour.
The fire crackled softly, and I could feel its heat against my toes.
Eventually, Mum spoke again. "Isabella said she'd be by just after breakfast. She wants to bring that new jumper she's been working on."
Nan snorted. "That woman never stops knitting. Or talking."
"She means well," Mum said.
"She means control," Nan muttered, but her smile said she didn't mind.
I perked up at that.
I liked Nonna. She was loud, yes, and always smelled of herbs and starch, but she treated me like a prince. She spoke to me in rapid Italian, which I was now beginning to understand. It's a beautiful and rich language.
"I hope she brings pastries," Mum added. "The bakery near her flat does those custard tarts Enzo loves."
"Only if he's lucky," Nan said, setting a plate in front of Mum and placing a kiss on my crown. "And only if she hasn't eaten half of them herself."
The morning passed in those soft domestic rhythms: toast and jam, gentle conversation, Mum tidying while Nan sang under her breath, and I spent time crawling under the table and practising my walking.
Eventually, there was a knock at the door. A short and Rhythmic knock, Nonna's style.
Mum opened it, and there she was: scarf wrapped around her neck, cheeks rosy from the cold, holding a tightly bundled package wrapped in a dark green cloth.
"Buongiorno!" she announced, sweeping in with a gust of wind. "Where is my birthday boy?"
She didn't wait for an answer. I was already in her arms.
"Guardati!" she cried. "You've grown like a weed! And those cheeks, mamma mia."
Wrapped in her wool scarf and the scent of olive oil and starch, she held me like I was a treasure.
Nonna was still mid-ramble as she carried me into the sitting room, barely glancing at Mum or Nan before planting herself down with me nestled in her arms.
"I stayed up late finishing this," she said, untying the green cloth bundle beside her. "Look! Look at this—pure wool, tight-knit, not a single dropped stitch."
She pulled out a tiny navy jumper with cream stripes around the cuffs and hem. It looked warm, soft, and handmade with devotion.
"Lovely," Mum said, leaning over to inspect it.
"Stunning work, Isabella," Nan added—her tone just polite enough to pass as sincere, even though I saw the twitch in her brow.
"Of course it is," Nonna sniffed, holding the jumper to my chest. "It's a perfect fit for my Tesoro."
She slipped it over my arms and pulled it gently down over my head. It was snug and cosy. The kind of snug that whispered of many cold winters to come.
"Oh, he looks like a proper little man now," Mum said softly, smoothing the hem.
"He always has," Nonna replied proudly. "Look at him. He's got that spark. Those eyes—they're not baby eyes. There's something old in there."
Nan raised an eyebrow from the doorway. "Careful, Isabella. That's how legends start. Before you know it, we'll be saying he came out talking and casting spells."
I gurgled just loud enough to cut the tension. All three women turned to me at once.
"See?" Nonna said, triumphant. "He agrees."
The hours passed in the slow, quiet rhythm of family life.
Mum finished the laundry, taking small breaks to sip tea and check in on me.
Nan tidied the hearth and set the dough to rise on the stove, her sleeves dusted in flour.
Nonna, of course, didn't sit still long. She wandered between rooms, fussing over curtains, straightening picture frames, insisting the fire was too low despite Nan's muttering.
"Always with the hands, that one," Nan whispered to me as she walked past, placing a peeled apple slice in front of me like a reward. "If she's not stirring a pot, she's stirring trouble."
Mum rolled her eyes. "She just likes things her way."
"Don't we all?" Nan muttered back, though her voice held less bite now.
Nonna eventually settled at the small table, pulling out her knitting again—click, click, click—as her lips moved silently with either prayer or a running list of complaints. I couldn't tell which.
I managed to toddle halfway across the rug at some point before plopping on my backside with a dramatic flop. It earned claps from all three of them.
"He's walking soon, mark my words," Mum said.
"By Christmas, I say," Nonna declared. "Strong legs. Good balance."
"Careful, Isabella," Nan said, lifting a brow. "You'll give him a complex."
I didn't mind. I liked the attention. There was something nice about being loved out loud.
Later, while I sat in Mum's lap nibbling the edge of a biscuit, they moved on to birthday plans.
"I made the stew," Nan said. "It's on the hob, nice and slow. Plenty of carrots. Parsnips."
"And I brought bread rolls from the market," Mum added.
"I brought cake," Nonna said, lifting a tin box. "Hazelnut sponge with custard cream."
"You didn't make it yourself, did you?" Nan asked, eyebrow raised.
"Of course I did," Nonna said with a sniff. "What do you take me for?"
Nan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "a liar with a bakery around the corner," but thankfully, it got lost under the tin lid clattering open.
Mum smiled, warm and weary. "They'll all be home soon. Might even have enough time to freshen up before dinner."
The fire popped gently in the hearth, and outside the window, the light had shifted—longer shadows now, the golden haze of late afternoon bleeding in through the lace curtain.
I curled against Mum's chest, full of jam, bread, and praise. Her hand ran down my back in slow, rhythmic strokes. It was quiet again, in that special kind of way that meant the day was almost done.
Then came the first sound of boots on the step.
Not rushed. Not tired. Just returning.
Babbo would be first. Always was.
And soon, Grandad and Nonno would follow, trailing in from butcher's blocks and brick walls, their arms full of cold wind and quiet pride.
Dinner would come soon.
But for now, the women kept the home warm, and I lay safe in their centre.
Wrapped in wool, love, and the flicker of firelight.