And there, on the kitchen counter, sat a beautiful prime ribeye steak, barely touched, that my wife had been eating while my mother was rationed dry toast.

“She’s being dramatic,” Wendy said, lifting her glass again.

“She wanders into the kitchen at night.

She wastes food, Luca.

I’ve been trying to manage this whole house on my own while you’re off traveling.

A little gratitude wouldn’t kill her.”