Instead of answering me, he looks at me. Not challengingly, and certainly not with that probing curiosity. He looks at me like a person looks at another when something inside them relents.
"My parents," he forces his lips into a smile. "They pretended to be the perfect family. They made me believe I was their greatest dream."
Every single one of his words feels like a stab in my heart. "I can't imagine they..."
He raises his hands defensively. "My friends constantly complained about the tense atmosphere at their homes. I couldn't relate."
A sigh escapes his lips. "I would say everything is fine with me, and I actually believed it."
I would like to reach out to him, but I don't dare. I want to say something, but I can't. I still don't understand where he's going with this, but I can feel how much his own words torment him. In silence, I walk beside him, deeper into the winding streets of Milan.
"It was all a lie. Every bedtime story, every hug. Every lovingly packed lunch, every laugh," he shakes his head, as if he can't believe it himself. As if he still doesn't understand why he didn't realize it much earlier. "When I was eight, I broke my father's model airplane while playing," he continues absentmindedly. "He loved that thing."
His direct gaze meets mine. I nod.
"Nevertheless, when it lay shattered in front of us, he took me in his arms. 'You're my son, and no matter what happens, I will always love you,' he said."
Kjell fidgets with the grissini packet, as if he needs to release some energy.
My shoulders feel heavy. That's what every child wants to hear from their father. I've done everything to hear those words from mine, and sometimes I even succeeded.
Kjell got it without any effort, even in a moment when his father had every right to be angry. But it was a lie?
Until now, I was sure that unrequited love is the worst thing parents can do to their children. But this...
"Why do you think he didn't tell the truth?" I hear myself ask, and now I'm doing it. I reach out for him, stopping his fingers incessantly stroking the plastic packaging. Our fingertips touch each other. Inconspicuously. Gently.
"He's not my father." His gaze becomes vacant. "And he never loved me for a single moment of my life."
I continue to let my fingertips glide over his. "Are you adopted?"
With pursed lips, he shakes his head. "It's much more complicated than you think."
"I have all evening," I reply, "if you want to talk."
Kjell studies me longer than necessary, then he shakes his head, lost in thought. "It's late."
"Mm-hmm," I reply, because I understand that. Maybe no one understands it better than I do. "A little sleep would actually be good."
As soon as I say those words, our fingertips lose contact, and although the night is mild for late October, I shiver a little.
