Meanwhile after school was finished.
I would usually walk home, since the school i went to was close enough to the neighborhood, where i live.
And since the town was small,i felt it was safe for a four year old to walk,especially when you're holding hands with a sugar-hyper four-year-old named Jeanne, babbling about how many cookies she could fit in her mouth and about sword fighting.
Luckily, I didn't have to walk this time though Mom picked us up from school today.
The car ride was filled with the usual hum of soft music and Jeanne occasionally singing over it, off-key but full of joy.
As we neared our neighborhood, Jeanne turned toward me with a beaming smile.
"Michael! I'm coming over today, okay? Your house has the better toys after all!"
I didn't argue about her claims, since she wasn't wrong.
My house was modest but cozy tucked in the quiet northern stretch of France, far from the chaos of the bigger cities.
Our family lived in a relatively calm, upper-middle-class area. It was the sort of place where people still waved to each other from across the street, and where the church bells actually meant something.
"Michael, I made your favorite tonight," Mom said with that casual smile of hers that always carried weight. "Pasta Carbonara."
I nearly bounced in my seat.
"Pasta," I whispered like it was sacred. "Carbonara…"
I wasn't even ashamed of how happy that made me. Some kids get excited over candy or cartoons. Me?
Give me a bowl of creamy, cheesy Carbonara and I'm a saint.(We'll it depends)
In both this life and my last, I had a deep, unholy love for Italian food.
Having an Italian mom might sound like a blessing.
And it is.
Unless she gets mad. (Which thankfully i haven't suffered from it...yet)
God may forgive.
But my mother?
She remembers.
Thankfully, I've always been a good boy. Never tested her patience too much.
Can't say the same for Dad though. I've seen that man get shut down mid-sentence just from one look.(Like when he unsuccessfully save me from my mom's hug)
Even hell doesn't know the wrath of a woman scorned.
As we pulled into the driveway, Mom suddenly added, "Oh, by the way Michael Nonna and Nonno are here."
And with that, I sprinted inside the moment the car stopped.
Nonno and Nonna who are basically my grandparents, from mom's side.
Aka: walking dispensers of affection, food, and gifts.
They lived in Northern Italy specifically in the city of Florence,and didn't visit often but when they did, it was like Christmas came early. Mom also has two brothers but that's something I'll tell another day.
"Nonno!" I yelled as I pushed the door open.
"Piccolo mio!" he replied, arms already wide.
I ran straight into the bear hug, nearly getting swallowed by his thick coat and even thicker mustache. Right behind him came nonna, who kissed my cheeks so aggressively I felt like I'd been baptized again.
"Have you eaten?" she asked classic grandma opening line.
"Not yet, Nonna. Mom's making Carbonara!"
"Ohhh, she learned well!" Nonna beamed, clapping proudly.
Meanwhile, Dad quietly slipped into the kitchen, probably trying to avoid his in-laws' enthusiastic Italian talking barrage. Coward.
Jeanne followed me in, taking in the new guests with awe and curiosity. "Are they your grandparents?"
I nodded proudly. "The best."
---
As Jeanne stepped into the house behind me, my grandmother's eyes locked on her like a hawk. Not the aggressive kind but the warm, predatory kind Italian grandmothers use when they spot a child to smother with love.
"Ohhh, che carina!" Nonna gasped, crouching slightly to cup Jeanne's cheeks in her hands. "God has truly blessed this house! Not only my sweet Michael, but now this little angel too!"
Jeanne giggled and introduced herself with that bubbly confidence only a sugar-fueled four-year-old could have.
Meanwhile, I just stood there, frozen.
"Grandma's already shipping us, huh."
I turned to look at Jeanne, who was still cheerfully chatting with my Nonna.
"Well… I guess I don't mind."
She was cute, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a bright smile. Even at four, she looked like the type to grow up into a heartbreaker. Not that I'm trying to think like that, but-
Okay.
Clarification time.
Yes, I'm mentally a 27 wait, or is it technically 31? Whatever. Somewhere in that ballpark. But physically? I'm a four-year-old. My brain and senses have de-aged too, somewhat so i do sometimes still act like a four year old.
So no need to call the FBI.
And even if someone did…
The FBI doesn't have jurisdiction outside the US so thank God for international law,so sorry your unable to call them, so who do you gonna call....
...
...
...
Ok Interpol could work actually considering they are an international police organisation.
Anyway,back to Jeanne.
I first met her when I was around two.
It was shortly after my family moved here. She lived just a few houses down.
I'd visit sometimes, but most of the time she came over probably because our house had better food, more toys.
Jeanne had that playful, adventurous energy. A bit tomboyish, sure, but not in the "I'll punch you" way a lot more in the "Let's climb trees and then let's do other fun things" way. Still very much a girl but i don't mind since i like tomboyish girls.
Just as I was enjoying the moment, a manly scream echoed from somewhere in the house.
It was the kind of noise that could only come from one person.
"Aghhh! HELP!"
"Ah," I muttered. "Nonno found Dad."
Sure enough, seconds later, we heard Nonno's booming voice. "Ahhh, figliolo! Why are you hiding like a mouse? What kind of blood run inside you ?"
Pretty sure Courage the Cowardly dog blood,no offense.
"I-I wasn't hiding, Antonio," Dad said with the kind of smile a man wears when he knows resistance is futile.
Nonno didn't let up.
"Your father, and his father, and his father would weep if they saw how you act. You come from a long line of warriors! Of pride and courage! And here you are, ducking behind your wife's apron!"
Jeanne looked at me, confused. "What's he talking about?"
I shrugged, trying to parse it myself.
But then i thought of something.
Wait… is he talking about our last name ?
Since i know the fact my last name is De Montfort but can they really be considered a warrior family, i guess , since they had once briefly ruled as the de facto for England.
Speaking of that some of them were templar Knight.
So does that mean i could have templar knight blood inside me ?
But i know the Templars had Vows from the vow of povery to no baby making they were single, right? Sworn to celibacy?
Then again considering some priests doesn't follow their oath, there were probably many templar knight that didn't follow, so that makes me question on how many people could be descendants of the templar Knight ?.
Still, I had to admit having a badass knight somewhere in the bloodline?
Pretty cool.