At Grandma's house, there are many of us, as always. Grandpa laughs and plays with the cousins, while Auntie peers from the balcony to make sure the parked car isn't bothering anyone. Dad waters the plants on the terrace, with the calm demeanor of someone who knows lunch will be long.

Mom is still out, busy running the last errands, while Uncle, with a familiar gesture, presses play on the usual video cassette we all know by heart.

In the kitchen, Grandma is in her element: impeccable, with her fresh perm, red lacquered nails, and her favorite apron, the one that gives her real superpowers. The scent of the sauce envelops every room, and from the oven comes the unmistakable aroma of slowly roasting lamb. It's the smell of home, the one that lingers on you even after you leave.

The table isn't set yet; it will be laid with the good china, the one Grandma only brings out for special occasions. Plates and glasses arranged "according to etiquette," even if no one, in reality, has ever read it in this house.

On the kitchen counter, the fried appetizer is already there, and someone tries to sneak a piece. Tap tap on the little hand: "if you keep this up, there'll be nothing left for dinner!" Then, with a solemn gesture, the tablecloth is unfolded and laid on the table with the lightness of a ritual.

It's the signal: Sunday lunch is about to begin.