The sound of boots on the step drew everyone's attention.
Babbo stepped through the door, the cold wind curling in behind him. His cheeks were pink from the walk, and his curls were tousled. He grinned the moment he saw me.
"There's my boy," he said, brushing his hands on his trousers before kneeling in front of me.
I squealed, bouncing and flapping my arms at him. His voice always made something fizz in my chest—warm and proud.
"Bab-bo!" I gurgled, reaching out.
He took my hand, squeezed it gently, and then kissed the tips of my fingers. "Clever little thing. That tongue's catching up quick."
He stood up, kissed Mum's temple, and nodded to Nonna. He greeted Nan with a wink before pulling off his coat and hanging it up on the peg.
"Get washed, Enzo!" Nan called as he passed toward the basin. "You're not touching that table with all that grease still on you."
"Aye, aye," he replied, already rolling up his sleeves.
The next knock was firmer, sharper. Grandad, this time.
He stepped in holding a butcher's parcel, a red apron tucked under his arm, and his boots clunking against the tiles. "I brought marrow bones. Big ones." He grinned, showing slightly red fingers. "Told the boss it was for my grandson's first. He threw in extra fat."
"Dad, you're spoiling him," Mum said, but I saw the shine in her eyes.
He crossed the room and gave me a look that was all bluff. "Look at you. You'll be running in no time, little man."
I blew a wet raspberry and grinned before rapidly crawling away, causing him to laugh.
"I like this one," he said. "You've got a good head on your shoulders already."
Then came Nonno—steady as stone, each step measured like he was carrying the weight of the day in his boots. He didn't speak, but the room felt smaller the moment he entered.
He walked in with cement still on his sleeves, laid his tools down by the boot rack, and nodded to everyone before his eyes settled on me.
He said nothing at first. Just reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his knuckle.
"Forte," he murmured.
I leaned into the touch. His hand was rough, but the gentleness in it could smooth mountains.
"Go and get washed before you sit down, all of you," Mum called as she bustled between the table and the oven. "Dinner's ready."
The kitchen smelled like stories. Everything is rich, warm and layered.
Nan carried in a great pot of stew—slow-cooked beef with thick root veg and gravy so dark it clung to the ladle. Beside it came roasted chicken legs rubbed in herbs, a dish of stuffed courgettes with cheese bubbling at the top, and garlic potatoes still steaming in their skins.
There were rolls from the market, sliced tomatoes with basil and vinegar, and bowls of pickled onions, olives, and roasted peppers.
The hazelnut sponge stood proudly on the counter, its top brushed with custard cream and powdered sugar for dessert.
It wasn't a feast, but it was certainly more than usual—richer, heavier, and deeply loved into existence.
"Don't touch a thing!" Nonna warned, waving her wooden spoon. "Let the birthday boy have the first taste."
All eyes turned to me. I blinked. Then blinked again.
Nan placed a little bowl in front of me—just mashed potato and gravy with a dab of soft carrot—and handed me a spoon that I immediately dropped.
Babbo laughed and picked it up. Mum was already on her way with a fresh one.
I dipped my new spoon into the potato, sucked it clean, then dropped it and again and clapped.
Everyone laughed, and I beamed like I'd just solved world peace.
Conversations bloomed like wildflowers over the table.
John talked about a customer who tried to steal a steak down his trousers. "It slipped out near the sausages—serves him right," Enzo described a factory mishap with a press machine and someone's lunch.
Nonno didn't speak much, but when he did, everyone listened.
"Mortar won't dry right in this cold," he muttered between bread bites. "The council need to fix the drainage or lose the wall."
"I told you," Nonna muttered. "They'll fix nothing unless it floods the mayor's shoes."
The food was passed around and around, steam rising and hands moving. It was loud, warm, and full in every sense of the word.
I chewed on a bit of soft bread and watched them—these people who had become my world. Their laughter, their tired eyes, the grease under their nails and the tenderness in their touches.
Eventually, Mum stood up and hushed everyone.
"All right," she said, retrieving the cake. "Let's not forget what we're here for."
She brought the tin forward, and Nan produced the stubby candle again. Enzo lit it with a match, shielding the flame with his hand.
The candle stood proud in the sponge. One single orange flame.
Everyone gathered close.
"Make a wish," Mum whispered.
I didn't know what to wish for. I've been reincarnated, and I'm in a period where I could exploit my knowledge to enrich myself. I've got what I spent years dreaming of—a family.
So, I wished for this moment to last forever.
To be surrounded by loved ones forever.
Having made up my mind, I blew with all my being. Spit and air flew all over the cake as the candle's flame disappeared.
"Bravo!" Babbo cried.
"Atta boy!" John laughed.
Mum teared up while Nan sat back with a warm smile.
Nonno just stared at where the flame disappeared with a lost gaze.
Nonna planted a kiss on both my cheeks and said something fast in Italian. I didn't catch all of it, but it was something about always being happy and healthy.
The cake was cut. The night deepened.
As the plates were cleared and tea brewed again, I found myself drifting. Babies needed plenty of sleep, and I was due some.
Mum noticed first.
"Alright, that's him done," she said, lifting me gently from the chair. "Say goodnight."
I reached toward Babbo, pressing my forehead to his chest. "Sleep well, ragazzo."
Nan followed behind him, resting her hands on the arms of my high chair and planting a soft kiss on my cheek. "Happy birthday, my little rascal. Sleep well now, you hear? No kicking off the blanket tonight."
Grandad kissed the top of my head. "You gave us all a show today, lad."
Nonna kissed both cheeks. "Buonanotte, piccolo angelo."
Nonno gave a nod, his hand briefly touching my arm like a passing gust—firm, real, enough.
After everyone said goodnight, Mum carried me upstairs slowly, as though drawing out each step to make the day last just a little longer.
In my room, the light was dim. The crib had been warmed, with the hot bottle already tucked at the foot. Mum hummed softly as she laid me down, changed me out of my jumper into some lighter clothes, pulled the blanket over my chest, and smoothed it gently, twice, then a third time, like she always did.
She brushed her fingers through my hair and whispered, "Happy birthday, Richard."
I blinked up at her once, my limbs too heavy to lift, but I made a small sound—half a coo, half a yawn—as her shadow moved away from the edge of the crib.
The door creaked as it closed behind her, just a crack left open.
Downstairs, the murmur of voices drifted up like lullaby notes—muffled, warm, belonging.
And I drifted into sleep, wrapped in the weight of love, the smell of stew and wool, and the soft quiet of being home.