“He called me Papa,” he says.
The words are quiet. Almost stunned. Like he’s repeating them because if he doesn’t, they won’t be real.
I close the door behind me gently, the click far too loud in the hush. I stand there, hands loose at my sides, heart thudding like it’s trying to break out. I don’t know what to do with him when he looks like this. With power stripped away. With nothing between his feelings and his face.
He glances down at the toy car, thumb dragging once over the roof like he’s grounding himself. “Is that okay?” he asks.
The question shouldn’t destroy me. It does. Because men like him don’t ask if something is okay. They decide it is. They take it. They enforce it.
But this man…
This man asks.
I swallow hard. “It’s… it’s not bad.”
“That’s not an answer,” he says softly.
I take a step closer before I decide to. It’s like my body recognizes him before my fear can catch up.
“Turo,” I say carefully, like I’m approaching something wounded.
His eyes lift to mine.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t… I didn’t plan for any of this.”
A muscle in his jaw flickers. He looks away, sharp, like the weakness in his own face offends him.
“I don’t know how to be what he needs.” His voice drops another level, like he doesn’t want the house to hear him confess it. “I don’t know how to be a father without being my father.”
The sentence lands in my chest with a dull, brutal weight. I think of Marco. Of his hands in my hair. Of the way he’d sayyou make me do this,like violence was my fault.
I think of Turo in the motel, holding himself still with visible effort, promising Marco couldn’t get to Nico.
And I think of Nico today, sitting beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the chair opposite his desk. The desk is between us. A barrier. A line. It feels ridiculous and necessary at the same time.
Turo doesn’t sit. He stays standing, like if he bends too far, he won’t be able to get back up.
“I’m terrified,” he says suddenly.
The admission is so blunt, it knocks the air out of me.
“Of what?” I whisper.
His eyes flick to me, then away again. Like saying it out loud might summon it.
“Hurting him,” he says. “Ruining him. Making him… like Marco.”
My throat tightens. “You won’t,” I say immediately, too fast, like I’m trying to cover the words with force.
Turo’s gaze snaps back to mine. “You don’t know that.”
I hold his stare. “I do,” I say, quieter now. “Because you’re afraid of it.”
He goes still. “What does that mean?” he asks, voice controlled, dangerous around the edges.
“It means your father wasn’t scared of hurting you,” I say. My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Marco wasn’t scared of hurting me. They didn’t question it. They didn’tcare.” I swallow hard. “You asked him what he wanted you to be,” I continue. “Youdidn’t claim him like a possession. You didn’t tell him what to call you. You gave him a choice.”
