When lunch ends, Keshia drops me off at home. She doesn’t notice the bodyguard who tailed us to the restaurant and back, but I give him a small wave before heading inside. Strange how quickly you adapt to having protection.
The apartment smells like flour and something savory. I follow the sounds of laughter to the kitchen, where I find Alessio and Austin wearing matching black aprons.
“We’re making noodles, Mommy!” Austin announces, wielding a rolling pin like it’s a magic wand.
I pull out my phone and start recording as Alessio stands behind our son, guiding his small hands. The domestic sweetness of it disarms me. This is the kind of memory I want to capture. Not just for Austin, but for Alessio, who’s already lost so many years.
When Alessio glances up and catches me watching, his smile is soft and unguarded in a way that makes heat pool in mystomach. This is the man I suspected was hiding beneath all that sarcasm and attitude.
Watching them work together, flour dusting their dark hair, I know it’s time. Austin deserves to know who Alessio really is, and they’ve built enough of a foundation that Alessio won’t feel like a stranger when we reveal the truth.
After dinner—the pasta was surprisingly good for a six-year-old’s handiwork—we gather in the living room. I sit next to Austin on the couch while Alessio perches on the coffee table, close enough to touch but giving us space.
“Austin,” I begin, my heart hammering. “You know how you’ve always wondered about your father?”
He nods, his expression turning serious.
“We have something to tell you.” I reach for Alessio’s hand, offering support and solidarity in one gesture.
My mouth feels dry. I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred different ways, but none of them prepared me for the gravity of actually saying it. What if this changes how Austin looks at me? What if this breaks something we can’t fix?
Alessio clears his throat. “Austin, it’s me. I’m your father.”
The silence stretches, heavy enough to choke me. My heart pounds as I wait for denial or fear, maybe even anger.
Instead, Austin launches himself off the couch and straight into Alessio’s arms with the kind of wholehearted trust that only children possess.
Alessio catches him, his own surprise evident as small arms wind around his neck. For a moment, neither of them moves, and I have to blink back tears at the sight of them; my son finally in his father’s arms.
Austin pulls back first, his face bright with excitement. “I knew it! I mean, I didn’tknowknow, but I thought maybe...” He looks between us. “So you’re really my dad? Like, my actual dad?”
“I really am,” Alessio says softly.
“I always wanted a dad like Tommy and Marcus have.” Austin stands and bounces on his toes. “Can we live here with you forever?”
“I want you both to stay,” Alessio says softly, his eyes meeting mine. The certainty in his voice makes my heart skip.
Austin throws his arms around Alessio’s neck again. “Good! Can I tell everyone at school? Can we play catch now? Do you know how to play Tic-Tac-Toe? I’m really good at it. I can teach you!”
Alessio’s smile is huge, genuine in a way I’ve rarely seen. “Yes to all of those.”
“Really? I’ll get paper!”
Austin rockets toward his room, leaving us alone. Alessio looks shell-shocked in the best possible way.
“That went well,” I say, understating things dramatically.
“He’s incredible,” Alessio murmurs. “How did you do this? Raise someone so...”
“Trusting?” I supply. “It wasn’t always easy. But kids are resilient when they feel loved.”
He looks at me then, something shifting in his expression. “I don’t know how to thank you. For him, for this chance?—”
“You don’t have to thank me. You’re his father. He’s been waiting his whole life for this.”
Austin comes barreling back with a stack of paper and colored pencils, ready to school his dad in Tic-Tac-Toe strategy. As I watch them settle in for their game, I realize something has fundamentally changed. We’re not just playing house anymore.
We’re a family.
