La Mamma - An Hommage to my Mother-In-Law

“Ciao, piacere di conoscerti,” which translates to, “Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you” in Italian. I repeated these words over and over again, as I greeted my boyfriend’s family members, one by one. His sisters were undoubtedly beautiful and welcomed me with open arms, alongside with their husbands. His father of good humour, already cracking jokes as if this was not the first time we had met. There I stood in the midst of this sea of warmth, at their family restaurant that they have had for decades, in the heart of the city; the beautiful Catania in Sicily.

We had only been together for approximately 9 months, previously having worked together in the same design studio. As he was very close to his family, it was only natural to come visit them once a year; especially to see la Mamma. The thought of meeting his mother initially brought me genuine fear. A relatable feeling I am sure anyone has when meeting their partner’s mother for the first time; especially when you both don’t speak the same language. In their household, it was the Matriarch that took over; a household much different than my own.

My grandfather, a stern economist from Madrid, always had the final say. My parents were not able to raise me due to their own share of marital problems; thus my grandparents had taken me in. While the love was unconditional, my grandfather had raised me like a grandson, rather than a granddaughter. By age 16 I was familiar with the cigars he smoked, the whiskey he drank and aspired to dress in more formal clothing. My closet was filled with blazers, dress pants and very little dresses. It wasn’t to say my grandmother was absent; but at the time, she kept her cards closer to her chest, agreeing to what my grandfather would propose. She was elegant, never offensive and enjoyed the occasional gossip and bingo with her friends. At a younger age, we had difficulties connecting, perhaps because I was my own grandfather’s project.

In contrast, my husband seemed closer to his family, calling them each day, having their own group chat and having nothing but fond memories to share. I felt worried that the distance I had in my own family would make it difficult to settle into such an intimate group. I worried that I often too found myself as a cold creature, as physical touch and words of affirmation were foreign to me.

However, coming face-to-face with la Mamma, for the very first time, resonated with me as if I had found years of unconditional love and acceptance in a single embrace. She was much smaller than me, and yet you could sense that her kindness could go for miles, only to ensure it would reach you. Her laugh was hearty, honest and made you feel as if there truly wasn’t a worry in the world that could ever bring her down. With kind eyes she said that although I did not speak Italian, nor her in English, the only thing that mattered was that our hearts spoke the same language. And suddenly, it felt as if I was seen.

She welcomed me into their home, which involved an 8-story building with no elevator. After every bite of fresh fish, brioche, pasta or pizza, I had an exercise plan simply by planning these stairs. My boyfriend would scold her, telling it was time to move, for an elevator might be the right thing when she becomes of age. She would laugh it off once again, saying that it would be the least of her problems. And as we reached the balcony that overlooked the city, right in front of us was Mount Etna, Sicily’s historic volcano that erupted occasionally. For her of course, this was the norm - she did not fear it. Even if the city was covered in ashes, she would merely wait for the rain, knowing it was just any other day.

She shared stories of my boyfriend’s youth, detailing experiences that brought her laughter and tears. I needed a bit of translation, as the Sicilian dialect was a treasure in itself. You could tell that in her eyes, she has had a lot of love to give, and that’s what always kept her strong. She was the cornerstone of every conversation, not afraid to speak her mind; not at all like I had always been accustomed to. She did not allow me to say “thank you” when it came to her acts of service like doing my laundry, or feeding me one of her comforting dishes. In fact, she would scold me, as if to remind me that these acts of services should be a natural exchange between a mother and her loved ones. She decided to call me her own, and comfort me by telling me that I too, had become her child.

I thought about how she must have felt when we moved to a new country for a new job. I thought about how she must have felt knowing that her son, had moved in with a woman she had never met. I thought about how she must have felt, when she found out her son was in a car accident a few months prior, and disappeared for a few days until he was able to speak with her again. I too was in the car accident, and could not imagine how she must have felt as he had just said goodbye to her on the phone prior to our journey. But we survived, and I was desperate to make sure he was safe and she could trust me to take care of him. I wanted to become part of his world, and had hoped she would accept me.

This new relationship, shook my nervous system, challenging all doubt about how I wasn’t good enough. Memories of empty relationships, forced smiles and existing to keep up appearances, which no longer felt like any of it mattered now. I had lived my life resenting my upbringing, my parents and the distance I had with my grandparents only to realize that I was finally deserving of love. La Mamma is now my mother too, and I have become a stronger person for it. And everytime we part, I look forward to the next time I come home to Catania.