Chapter 8 - MATTEO’S TRAIN
Matteo turned twelve.
Still kept the wooden train.
The red paint was nearly gone.
He pretended it was because keeping childhood objects was “historically important.”
Leah let him lie.
His health was stable.
Not cured.
Medication remained part of life.
So did insurance forms.
But the emergency terror had faded.
For his birthday, Dante asked what he wanted.
Matteo answered:
“A gaming computer.”
Leah answered:
“No.”
Dante immediately said:
“I have been overruled.”
Matteo groaned.
Eventually he received components from several relatives and saved allowance to build one himself.
Better.
Then Matteo asked Dante something uncomfortable.
“Are you still mafia?”
Leah nearly dropped a plate.
Dante looked at her.
“Your family dinners are relaxing.”
“Answer.”
Matteo waited.
Dante took the question seriously.
“I was part of criminal businesses.”
“Some people would still describe me that way.”
“Do you hurt people?”
“I have.”
“Now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I stopped believing fear was a good way to keep control.”
Matteo frowned.
“Did Aunt Leah make you stop?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Leah looked at him.
Good.
“I made choices.”
“She challenged some.”
“Lawyers challenged others.”
“Police helped.”
“Losing money helped.”
Matteo laughed.
Dante continued:
“But nobody can change another adult for them.”
Exactly.
Later Leah told him:
“That was a good answer.”
“I rehearsed.”
“Ruins it.”
“Still true.”
On Matteo’s thirteenth birthday, he gave Leah the wooden train.
“What?”
“I’m too old.”
“No, you're not.”
“Yes.”
He pushed it toward her.
“You kept everything else Mom gave me.”
“I want you to keep this.”
Leah’s eyes filled.
The toy connected her to Marisol.
To hospital nights.
To pharmacy messages.
To the photograph she saw minutes before finding Dante in that cart.
She kept it on her desk at the patient-navigation office.
May you like
Not as symbol of suffering.
As evidence that children become teenagers no matter how much adults want time to slow down.
