“I saw the pictures from the Halloween parade,” she continued when I didn’t answer. “La piccolaOlivia, she looks at you like you personally hung every star in the sky.”
“Mama—”
“And this Lily, she looks at you like you’re home.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Bah!Love is simple. We make it complicated with our fears and our pride and our need to prove things to people whose opinions shouldn’t matter.”
Her voice turned gentle. “Do you love her?”
I closed my eyes, and there she was—Lily laughing in her flour-dusted kitchen, patiently teaching Olivia how to measure ingredients. The trust in her eyes when she let me help with the costume project. The way she fit perfectly in my arms during that rainstorm.
“Yes,” I whispered, scrubbing a hand over the stubble on my jaw.
“Then why are you running away?”
“Because they deserve someone who knows how to stay. Someone who doesn’t have tolearnhow to be part of a family.”
“Stupido.” Her voice was fierce now. “You think I knew how to be a mother when you were born? You think your father knew how to balance racing and family? We learned. Together. Every day, we chose each other and figured it out as we went.”
“It’s not that simple?—”
“It’s exactly that simple. You choose to stay. You choose to try. You choose to love them more than you love your fear.” She paused. “The question is, what are you choosing, Mario?”
After she hung up, I stood in the wreckage of my cottage, surrounded by half-packed boxes and half-lived decisions. A faint dusting of glitter sparkled on the coffee table—the last trace of Olivia’s pipe cleaner ring before Lily walked away with it. Everything I owned sparkled now—my couch, my shirt, probably my DNA at this point—but the ring itself was gone. So was the family it had come to represent.
Ben was watching me with barely contained hope.
“The whole town thinks I’m a coward,” I said.
“They think you’re scared,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Lily blocked my number.”
“Smart woman. Protecting her heart.”
“Olivia—”
“Asked me if you were allergic to responsibilities like her biological father.” He let that sink in.
“Don’t prove a seven-year-old’s cynicism right, Mario. She deserves better.”
The parallel hit like a slap. Daniel, who’d texted his way out of fatherhood. Me, about to use a job offer as an escape route from the same responsibility.
“What if I stay and screw it up, anyway?”
“Then you screw it up while trying. While present. While giving them the respect of an honest effort.” Ben moved toward the door, then turned back.
“Pumpkin-carving contest is tomorrow. Last event of the festival season.”
“So?”
“So the whole town will be there. Including them.” He paused in the doorway. “Maybe it’s time to stop letting other people write your ending. Maybe it’s time to choose your own story.”
After he left, I picked up my laptop and opened the email from the racing team. The job offer stared back at me—prestigious position, generous salary, a clear path back to relevance in the only world where I’d ever known who I was.
Dear Mr. Rossi,I began typing.Thank you for the generous offer…
