After breakfast, I head to the construction site. Sal nods when I arrive, doesn't ask questions. I've been here long enough now that I'm just part of the crew. Another worker. Nothing special.
And I've never been happier.
The work is hard but satisfying. My body has fully healed—the ribs don't ache anymore, the wound on my temple is just a scar. I'm stronger than I was, muscle built from weeks of physical labor.
Aldo yells at me to move faster, and I grin. A month ago, he was suspicious of me. Now he just treats me like everyone else.
Like I'm normal.
At lunch, I sit with a few of the other workers. They talk about football, about their families, about mundane problems like broken washing machines and difficult mothers-in-law.
I mostly listen. But occasionally, I contribute. A comment about the game last night. A joke about Aldo's temper. Small things that make me feel like part of something.
Like I belong.
"You got a family, Lupo?" One of the younger guys asks during a lull in conversation.
I hesitate. Do I? Officially, no. Isabella and I aren't married. Elena isn't mine.
But in every way that matters...
"Yeah," I say. "I do."
"Kids?"
"A daughter. Three years old."
"That's a good age,” he says. "Mine's five. Drives me crazy but I love her."
I understand that completely.
The afternoon passes quickly. By the time Sal dismisses us, the sun is low in the sky and my muscles ache in a good way. I pocket my fifty euros and start the walk home.
Home.
When did I start thinking of the farm that way? When did it stop being Isabella's place and become ours?
By the time I reach the property, the sun is setting, painting everything gold. I can see Isabella in the garden, harvesting vegetables. Elena is nearby, supposedly helping but mostly just playing in the dirt.
They haven't seen me yet. I stop at the edge of the property, just watching them.
Isabella straightens, wiping her brow. She's wearing a sundress, her hair pulled back, her skin tan in the fading light. She looks beautiful. Happy.
She looks like she belongs to me.
The thought is possessive and probably unhealthy. But I don't care.
Elena spots me and shrieks. "Daddy!"
Daddy.
She's never called me that before. Always Lupo. Never Daddy.
I'm frozen, unable to move, as she runs toward me. She crashes into my legs, hugging them tight, looking up at me with those big brown eyes.
"You're home! Mama said you'd be home soon and you are!"
I look over at Isabella. She's gone very still, vegetables forgotten, watching us with something unreadable in her expression.
