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15. Evelyne Diallo

If there is one recipe of pasta that anyone should know in life, and not just the frozen dishes at the supermarket or the one at the restaurant, it should be the Aglio e Olio.

I'm talking about delicious, easy pasta ready within ten minutes, and the ingredients are just olive oil, garlic, chilli flakes, cheese, and parsley. We love it so much that I even have a pot of my own homegrown herb at home. But tonight, we are not going to eat that.

You see, it's been seven months now that I'm working; mom pushed me into it.

"I know it's hard, Diallo, but take your time and try to find a job!"

Well, we do struggle with money, but even when I was going to high school, mom always made sure to join the ends. So what are all those extra dollars for?

See moms work in that shady way. They will never tell you that you are becoming a household concern, but instead they will push you to do things just because they love you.

Mom got me that job because she was worried that I'd do nothing with my life. Except, she doesn't know I met Emilie or even that I'm an online writer with 9k views and two hundred followers.

So tonight, let me take the first woman of my life to the famous Piccola Cucina Estiatorio on Thompson Street, and we won't just eat cheap pasta.

Let's stuff ourselves on the Arancino antipasti. Let's order the eighteen-dollar insalata, and let's fill our stomachs with some delicious Paccheri lobster like in my dream. It will taste even better because I won't have to cook it, and it will match my smart suit with the flower bouquet that I bought for mom on the way. Yes, mom and I will dine like kings tonight, and there she is. Mom is here in her work uniform with all her cleaning stuffs including her huge hoover, and she is walking towards me.

"Diallo, when you told me that this place needs a cleaner, I thought you meant they really do. Not that we'll have to eat there tonight!" Mom plants herself there in front of me with her hands on her hips and her narrowed eyes. She is mad at me.

Slight hiccup to the plan: I did tell her that, so I won't spoil the surprise, but in hindsight, I did also tell her to check with the front desk first. They just led her right to our table instead of giving her the interview she expected.

"Well, mom, your son can work in some shady way too," I answer to her as one of those expensive rice balls pops into my mouth. I spit out that boiling-hot piece of food straight away too. Who knew a rice ball could burn that much? Mom, on the other hand, is not looking happy, so I stand up and step closer to her. "Please take a seat!" I remove her coat and pull the chair out for her. Yet, she still has this look on her face, so I beckon her to take her place at our table. Mom sits down and moves her chair loudly as a protest, then she grabs the menu.

I return to my chair, and this is when she covers the side of her face with it and whispers to me, "Diallo, we don't have the money for this sort of place. Let's go home now!"

"Well, mom, I do," I say. "I want to dine here with you tonight as a treat. So would you take a look at the food here and let me know what you want to eat without worrying about the bill?"

She splays her fingers out in a fan against the breastbone as she repeats, "A treat?" Her eyes widen, and she asks again, "You want to treat me?"

"Yes, if that is not too much to ask. I want to treat you, mom, and this is not the end of all the presents I have in store for you, so can you now let me?"

"Diallo, this money you are working for at the moment will be for your study; don't spend it on me. I'm not worth it; your future is."

"Shush mom!" I put my hand on her mouth. "You're worth it, so let's order, or I'll order the most expensive dish and I'll watch you eat it until the last crumb! »

Mom takes my hand from her face, but her expression hasn't softened until a man walks past our table. The idiot who doesn't look in front of him and trips over her hoover. We both laugh at the scene before I step in to help the guy. One smile is all it takes for my mother's rage to flee, and she then turns to gaze at the tiny dish of Arancini. I can see her hesitating, then she takes a bite and coughs it out just like I did before downing a huge glass of water. This is how I know she has given in to my surprise.

The evening finally starts, and it goes fast, like everything in life that matters. We talk about Uncle Boubacar in Portugal, and I tell her about my friend Emilie from work. I can't tell her that I met her online, but this is when I come to realize something that mom instantly guesses.

"You seem to really like that Emilie," she says as we walk arms knitted together in the street of New York at night.

"Emilie!" I repeat in an unknown higher pitch of my own voice. My hand brushed the back of my head before I could deny it. "No, we're just colleagues!"

"Diallo, I'm your mom, and that sudden voice only happens when it's about a girl you like. So when would you invite her home for dinner?"

Typical mom, she already wants to know her, but how can I tell her that I only know Emilie with words and no face and that she lives in another foreign country?

"Tell me something, I don't know, mom."

"I see!" she giggles. "Do you know why your name is Diallo?"

"No, but you could have called me Daniel?" I say, and she rolls her eyes at my poor choice of a new name.

"Before I married your father, my name was Evelyne Diallo!"

"What, we are not Americans?" I shout in shock, earning myself a slap from her hand to the back of my head. Mom is smaller than I am, but when she strikes, she never misses.

"Your father is American; I am from West Africa, Nigeria." She pauses as she looks away, fighting off the tears. My eyes couldn't let go of her face; I stare at her like I was still her young son, who had just knocked her ashtray. Then she wraps her hands tighter around my arm—it's about dad. "When I married your father, I knew I'd have to become Evelyne Jones, but Diallo was always in my family, so I named you as such instead. Your name means bold, son, and that is exactly what you are to me!"

She smiles—a contagious smile worth a thousand dollars—as we arrive at our home. I open the door as she removes her coat, and then I hand her a box. She takes it as her head tilted to one side.

"What is it, Diallo?"

"My last present of the evening!" I sit her down on the sofa while she unwraps it. Then she looks up at me as I say, "I know it wasn't easy when I dropped out of school and decided not to go to uni to save us money, but this book is for you, mom. It's to thank you for everything you do."

Indeed, she is holding in her hands the first and only copy of "The Smile of My Mom" with Emilie's cover on it. I finished writing the book last week. I know, I will still have some edits to do, but I wanted her to have it because that story is about her after all.