After ascertaining that her son is still alive, my mother always feels mortified. She pouts like a 12-year-old girl. Her voice even turns into a 12-year-old girl’s. How can you get angry at a little girl?

“You think I should bring the carabinieri some pastries?” she asks in that little voice.

Come to think of it, who knows why she called the carabinieri and not the regular police? I don’t dare pose the question, since it risks doubling the number of calls she’ll make next time. The fire department, for example, or civil protection. She’s never thought of them before.