One might say that America is the prosperous land of fortune - others say it's the land of the free. But I say it's just a rude country. Mostly because they won't buy mamma's hand baked bread because she's a woman. We used to be prosperous in our little bakery, but that was before padre left for the military.

Or so mamma told me.

I doubt it though because not even a letter I've gotten in 2 years.

And also because I don't have friends. I blame America for that.

I sighed and looked out my rooms window from where I was sitting at. At least it wasn't like England's dark sky - yet not as beautiful as Italy's. I got up and headed out my room to the bakery that was underneath our small home.

"Morning mamma." I said, going into the baking area where mamma was.

"Piccolo~Help me put this dough into the oven. It's too heavy."

"Okay."

I grabbed the other end of the tray of bread as mamma held the other side and in it went into the fireplace.

"Finito."

"Grazie, my boy."

"Anything else?"

"If you don't mind, help me prepare this next set of batter."

"Mamma."

"Yes dear?"

"Why make so much of it? This is like the 15th batch and no ones entered the store."

Mamma's eyes looked slightly hurt before returning to her Italian senses.

"Just help me with this batter and go back to your room and study. Okay Chase?"

I should've expected it, but I was still surprised when she called me by my name. Usually it's "Piccolo" or "Amore" but hardly my name. (She kinda regrets calling me an English name and not Italian but it was my fathers choice.)

"Yes Ma-"

I stopped when I heard the bakery door open. Mamma and I went out the baking area in a hurry and into the main room. That's when we saw a scruffy looking boy - shirtless.