The anticipation is thick-tonight is special not just because it is Christmas Eve, but because Nonna Sofia and Nonno Elio are visiting from Italy. It’s the first time they’re spending the holiday with us in Brooklyn instead of us traveling to them, and the excitement has been building all day. Mom bustles around the kitchen, as she prepares the final touches for the light meal of fish. She’s been in organizing mode all day, and I can hear her voice carrying through the house, giving reminders and instructions in rapid Italian. 

“Elio,  ricordati di preparare il presepe prima che arrivi no,"  she calls from the kitchen, reminding me to set up the nativity scene. 

“Si,si,lo,si,” I respond, a little distracted as I untangle the lights that will go around the manger. 

Gia is sitting on the couch, flipping through a Macy’s catalog, but the moment I start setting up the nativity scene, she comes to help. “Mamma’s stressed.” she says quietly, handing me the figurine of baby Jesus.

“She’s always like this when they come.” I say with a smile, placing the baby Jesus in the manger. “But she’s right. We should speak Italiano.”

Gia rolls eyes playfully. “We speak Italian all the time.”

“I know, but you know how Nonna gets if we slip up and start speaking in English,” I say, glancing at her. “Especially when she tries to speak in English herself. She gets frustrated.”

“True,” Gia laughs, positioning the three wise men next to the stable. “But it’s cute when she tries.”

I grin,nodding. “Yeah, it is.”

We finish setting up the nativity scene just as Mom steps into the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Bene, ragazzi,” she says, inspecting our work. “It looks perfect. Just in time, too. They should be here any minute.”

Dad appears from the hallway, carrying his coat and glancing at the clock. “Everything's ready? We’ll have a little time to eat before heading to mass.”

“Almost,” Mom says, smoothing down the front of her dress. “Elio, Già, ricordatevi di parlare in italiano quando arrivano i nonni."

“We know, we know.” I say. Mom’s been reminding us all day.

There’s a sudden knock on the door, and we all freeze for a second. “Sono qui!” Gia exclaims, racing toward the door.

I follow close behind. When Gia opens the door, there they are-Nonna Sofia and Nonno Elio, bundled up against the cold, their faces lighting up the moment they see us.

“Buon Natale!” Nonna Sofia exclaims, pulling Gia into a tight hug before reaching for me. Her embrace is strong, despite her small frame, and the familiar scent of her perfume wraps around me.

“Buon Natale, Nonna,” I say, grinning as I pull back. Nonno gives me a firm handshake, the way he always does.

"Guarda quanto sei cresciuto!" Nonno says, his Italian thick with the usual rough edges of his accent. "Ogni anno più alto!"

“Grazie, Nonno,”  I reply with a laugh, stepping back to let Mom and Dad greet them.

After the flurry of hugs and kisses, we help Nonna and Nonno take off their coats, and the small entryway is filled with their chatter in a mixture of broken English and flowing Italian. Nonna is already asking about the preparations for mass and dinner, while Nonno quietly observes. At the table, we settle in for a simple meal-Mom’s traditions of serving fish on Christmas Eve. It’s light, just enough to hold us over before mass, but it’s delicious, as always. 

"Il pesce è delizioso, Francesca," Nonna says to Mom, nodding appreciatively. "Sempre brava con la cucina."

“Grazie, Mamma,” Mom responds.

After dinner, there’s a sense of quiet excitement as we prepare to head out to mass. Nonna and Nonno are talking about how different Christmas feels here in Brooklyn, but they both seem happy to be with us. As we walk out the door, the cold air hits us, but there’s a warmth between all of us. We pile into the car, Nonna clutching her rosary in her hands, and head toward the church.

The streets of Brooklyn are quiet on Christmas Eve, the usual hustle softened by the holiday. I glance over at Gia, who’s staring out the window, her face reflecting the holiday lights from passing houses. 

“Ready for mass?” I ask her quietly.

She shrugs, a small smile on her face. “Yeah, It’s kind of nice, though, having Nonna and Nonno here with us this year. It feels different.”

“It does,” I agree.

Christmas morning in our house is always an event, filled with excitement, traditions, and the smell of pine needles and lots of wrapping paper. The soft glow of the tree lights fills the living room. We’ve been up for hours, opening presents and enjoying the little moments-Mom and Dad exchanging smiles as we tear into our gifts, Nonna and Nonno chiming in with praise and commentary in rapid Italian. The only thing missing is breakfast.

“No food until Christmas dinner,” Mom had said with a firm look, reminding us of the tradition we follow every year. So, we make do with the excitement of gifts, and I’m sipping on coffee to keep me going until the big meal later.

Gia flops down next to me on the couch, watching as I take a long sip for my mug. Her eyes narrow, and she crosses her arms, clearly annoyed.

“How come you get to drink coffee, but I can’t?” she asks, her voice teetering between curiously and frustration. “I’m thirteen, that’s almost old enough.”

I glance at her over the rim of my mug, raising an eyebrow. “Because you already have more energy than the rest of us combined.” I tease, nudging her with my elbow. “The last thing anyone needs is you bouncing off the walls after a cup of coffee.”

She scowls, crossing her arms tighter. “But you’ve been drinking coffee since you were twelve. That’s not fair.”

I smirk, knowing she’s right. “Okay, yeah, but I wasn’t guzzling it down every morning. I started off and just finished the last of Dad’s coffee when he wasn’t looking.”

Dad chuckles from the recliner, overhearing our conservation. He’s sipping on his own cup of coffee, nodding in agreement. “He’s not wrong. I used to leave a little in my cup, and Elio would sneak in a few sips. By the time we noticed, it was too late.”

“See?” I say, turning to Gia with a grin. “It wasn’t like I was getting my own cup every morning. It was more of a treat.”

She pouts, clearly not convinced. “I still don’t see why I can’t have any.”

Mom steps in from the kitchen, shaking her head as she overhears us. “Gia, you’re still too young. Coffee can wait a few more years. Besides, you’re plenty energetic without it.”

Gia groans, sinking further into the couch, clearly defeated. “Fine,” she mutters.

“Alright, tombola time!” Mom announces, pulling out the small bingo-like board and the little bag of numbered tokens. It’s another tradition we’ve always done on Christmas Day, and it usually gets competitive. Gia perks up at this, momentarily distracted from the coffee debate.

We gather around the table, ready to play. Nonna hands out the cards, and we each grab a handful of beans to mark our numbers. I always forget how serious my family takes tombola until we start playing. Even Nonno, usually quiet and reserved, gets a competitive glint in his eye when the game starts.

"Pronto, ragazzi?" Nonno asks, his voice thick with his Italian accent. He’s holding the bag of numbers, ready to call them out.

"Pronto," we all say in unison, leaning in.

As the game begins, the chatter around the table grows louder, everyone talking over each other as we mark our numbers. Nonna scolds Nonno for calling the numbers too fast, and Dad makes sarcastic comments about how he’s always the last to get a number. It’s chaotic, but in the best way.

Gia manages to snag a win during one of the early rounds, and her excitement erases any leftover frustration from the coffee conversation. She waves her card in the air triumphantly. "Tombola!" she shouts, her voice echoing through the living room.

We all groan, laughing as she collects her prize—usually a chocolate coin or some small treat. "You’ve got beginner’s luck," I tease, nudging her again.

"Or maybe I’m just better at this than you," she shoots back with a smug smile.

The game continues for a while longer, the atmosphere around the table growing even more lively as the competition heats up. Between rounds, I sip my coffee, feeling content and warm, surrounded by my family. Nonna and Nonno keep slipping in bits of advice or commentary in Italian, their voices like a comforting melody that I’ve known my whole life.

Eventually, Mom stands up and announces it’s time to start getting ready for Christmas dinner. The real feast is coming, and the smell of roasted meat and herbs already wafts from the kitchen, making my stomach growl.

I set down my coffee cup and stretch, exchanging a look with Gia. Despite her earlier protests, she seems happy, especially now that the coffee debate is behind us.

"Next year, maybe you’ll get a sip," I say, half-teasing, half-promising.

She narrows her eyes at me playfully. "Next year, I’m getting my own cup. Just wait."

I laugh, shaking my head. "We’ll see about that."

With that, we help Mom clear the table, ready to move on to the next part of our Christmas tradition. The day is unfolding exactly as it always does—full of warmth, laughter, and the kind of quiet joy that comes from being surrounded by family.

Dinner was incredible-five full courses, each more delicious than the last. Nonna made sure no plate stayed empty, serving up heaping portions of pasta, roasted meat, vegetables, and of course, her famous tiramisu for dessert. Now, I’m sitting in the living room, so full I can hardly move. I rub my stomach, trying to ease the tightness, and let out a deep yawn.

Nonna notices, of course. She always does. "Bravo, Elio," she says in Italian, coming over and patting my shoulder. "Hai fatto un buon lavoro mangiando. Ma sei troppo magro!" She frowns playfully and pinches my cheek, as if to check if I’ve gained any weight.

I smile at her, feeling both amused and a little guilty. "Nonna, ho mangiato tanto. Non posso più," I say, leaning back and stifling another yawn.

"Dopo una cena così, ci vuole una passeggiata," Nonno says, standing up and stretching. "Andiamo fuori."

We all slowly gather our coats and scarves, and despite feeling like I could sleep for a week, I follow them out the door. The cold air hits my face, refreshing after being inside all day.

As we walk, Nonna nudges me gently. "Sei emozionato per Capodanno? Arriveranno i cugini e tutta la famiglia."

I nod, smiling at the thought of more family filling our home. "Sì, Nonna. Non vedo l’ora."

It’s New Year’s Eve, and our brownstone is packed with family—cousins, aunts, uncles, all filling the living room and kitchen with the sound of loud chatter and laughter. The table is covered with food, including the traditional bowl of raisins sitting in the middle, waiting for midnight. The whole house feels alive, buzzing with excitement for the new year.

I’m talking with one of my cousins when there’s a knock at the door. My heart skips a beat—I know who it is. I make my way through the crowd, dodging relatives who stop to ask how my knee is doing, and finally open the door.

"Hey," Max says, smiling, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He looks a little nervous, but his eyes light up when he sees me.

"Hey," I reply, grinning back. "Come on in."

As he steps inside, I can feel the eyes of my family turning toward us. Introducing Max to my family has been something I’ve thought about for a while, but now that it’s happening, it feels a little surreal. There’s a lot of Italian being spoken, some cousins raising eyebrows, but everyone’s friendly.

I lead Max into the living room, weaving through the chaos. "Max, these are my cousins," I start, pointing out each one by name. I have to translate a little, especially for my older relatives, whose English isn’t great.

"Ciao!" one of my cousins says, giving Max a friendly nod. Max smiles and waves back, looking a little relieved as I handle the introductions.

As we make our way toward the kitchen, Max spots the big bowl of raisins sitting on the table. He raises an eyebrow and looks at me, confused. "So, uh… what’s with the giant bowl of raisins?" he asks, leaning in so only I can hear him.

I laugh, knowing how strange it must seem. "It’s an Italian tradition," I explain. "At midnight, we each eat twelve raisins—one for each month of the year. It’s supposed to bring good luck."

Max nods slowly, still looking amused. "Twelve raisins, huh? Sounds… interesting."

I smirk. "It’s better than lentils. Nonna used to make us eat those."

As the minutes tick down to midnight, everyone starts gathering in the living room, crowding around the TV to watch the ball drop. I grab a small handful of raisins from the bowl and give a few to Max.

"Ready for your first Italian New Year?" I ask, grinning as I hand him his portion.

He chuckles, popping one into his mouth before it’s time. "I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be."

The countdown begins—"Dieci, nove, otto…"—and the whole room joins in, shouting the numbers in Italian. My heart races, not just from the excitement of the new year, but from the fact that Max is here, with my family, sharing this moment.

"Tre, due, uno—Buon Anno!" The room explodes with cheers as the clock hits midnight. We all toss the raisins into our mouths, eating quickly, and I look over at Max, who’s trying not to laugh while chewing.

"Happy New Year," I say softly, leaning in.

"Happy New Year," he replies, and then, without thinking twice, I kiss him.

It’s quick, but it feels like forever, and in that moment, with the noise of my family around us and the warmth of Max’s lips on mine, everything feels perfect. When we pull back, Max’s face breaks into a soft smile, his eyes bright with a mix of surprise and happiness.

"Well," he says, trying to keep his voice steady, "if the raisins didn’t bring me good luck, I think that just did."

I laugh, feeling a flush creep up my neck, but I don’t mind. Max squeezes my hand, and I can’t help but feel like this year is already starting off just right.