Our Family Photo Without You

The cannoli had sat in the refrigerator all night.

The cream had slumped along the edges, giving off the sour, spoiled smell of something gone off.

My son opened the refrigerator door and looked at it.

It was the peace offering Lorenzo had made a point of bringing home the night before.

One of the rare times he'd remembered what his son liked.

But it had come too late.

His face calm, my son took the box out, and without a moment's hesitation, dropped it straight into the trash.

The lid eased shut.

Like a final period set at the end of this crumbling bond between father and son.

Nine o'clock sharp.

The Castellano family's consigliere arrived right on time.

The dissolution of the alliance had cleared its final review.

I opened the file and let my eyes settle on the last page.

The division of holdings was clean and exact.

And the column for custody had long since been written out, plain and final.

From the moment the pact was signed.

Only one last formality remained between Lorenzo and me.

After the consigliere left, I idly scrolled through my feed.

Five minutes earlier.

Gianna had posted an update.

【Got the family portrait rushed through.】

【Nico says it's the best gift he's gotten all year. He insists on hanging it over his bed.】

The attached photo was the family portrait from yesterday.

In it, Lorenzo held Nico, and Gianna leaned against him.

Sunlight fell over the three of them.

Warm, as if they were the real family.

I looked at it for a few quiet seconds.

Then closed the page.

No like. No comment.

I couldn't even summon half an ounce of feeling for it.

My son sat at the dining table, folding a paper airplane.

The heavy cream stock came together neat and crisp in his hands.

He caught a glimpse of my phone screen.

His eyes rested there for only an instant, then calmly moved away.

The one who'd once cared about all this most.

Was now the first to let it go.

"Mom."

He set the finished airplane aside.

"Do you have the papers?"

"We should get going."

I watched him put on that grown-up front, and something in my chest went tight and bitter.

But I smiled and nodded all the same.

"I've got it."

"Let's go home."

Noon.

My son and I didn't tell anyone.

We didn't trouble the Moretti family's driver or soldiers either.

We just called a car and headed straight for the airfield.

The car pulled slowly away from the estate above the water.

My son sat in the back, holding his tablet.

He didn't say a word the whole way.

He only flipped quietly through the photos in an album.

Inside it was every memory he had of his father's love over the years.

There was the photo from just after he was born, the first time Lorenzo held him.

That always decisive, ruthless man, fumbling, so careful he'd softened even his breathing.

There was the night the Family celebrated his fifth year.

Lorenzo leading him by the hand into the room, under the eyes of every made man at the table, presenting him with pride:

"This is my son. The blood of this house."

And one afternoon, years ago.

Father and son standing on the lawn of the compound.

Lorenzo holding his hands from behind, teaching him bit by bit to swing a golf club.

In the video, my son was laughing, so happy.

Padre this, Padre that.

His eyes full of worship.

The car was terrifyingly quiet.

My son didn't cry.

He didn't fuss.

But that silent grief hurt to watch more than any tears would have.

I reached out and gently took his small, slightly cold hand.

He startled for a moment.

Then closed his fingers around mine.

He didn't say anything.

One o'clock.

The terminal speakers began the boarding announcement.

Just then, my phone rang.

The caller ID.

Lorenzo.

I looked at it for a few seconds, then answered.

The other end was loud and chaotic.

I could just make out crying and the sound of people running.

Lorenzo's voice came fast and frantic.

"Adriana, tell our son I'm sorry."

"Nico just fell from the stands at the club. He's broken his lower leg, and Gianna's terrified."

"I'm taking him in right now."

"There's no way I'll make it this afternoon."

"Take our son home for now. I'll go with him in a couple of days."

"Tell him I'll make it up to him."

He spoke fast and urgent.

Racing against the clock.

He didn't even wait for me to speak.

The call cut off in a hurry.

Quiet returned to my ear.

I looked down at my son.

He'd clearly heard all of it.

But he only asked, calmly:

"Was that Padre?"

"Mm."

"He bailed again?"

I was silent for two seconds.

Then nodded.

My son didn't react at all.

No disappointment.

No grief.

As if he'd known all along it would end this way.

He just lowered his head and opened the tablet again.

Tapped into that album he'd treasured for years.

Inside was every memory he had of his father.

Photos.

Videos.

Birthdays.

Trips.

And all those warm moments he'd never been able to bring himself to delete.

He stared at the screen for a long time.

So long I thought he would cry.

But in the end.

He simply tapped the top right corner.

Select all.

Delete.

A confirmation window popped up.

【Permanently delete?】

My son didn't hesitate for a second.

He pressed confirm.

The screen went blank in an instant.

As if none of it had ever existed.

The announcement sounded again.

Calling passengers to board.

My son put the tablet away and reached for my hand on his own.

"Mom."

"Let's go."

Two o'clock sharp.

The plane surged down the runway.

With a tremendous roar, it climbed slowly into the clouds.

I fitted the noise-canceling headphones over my son's ears.

Shutting out all the noise and the turmoil.

Beyond the window.

The familiar territory shrank, bit by bit.

The compound, the streets, the river that had marked the edge of Moretti ground.

Until they became distant black specks.

I looked down at the city that had held seven years of a marriage between two bloodlines.

And let out the stale breath I'd carried in my chest for so long.

From today on.

There would be no more endless waiting in my son's life, or mine.

Goodbye.

Lorenzo.