Chapter 7 - FATHER LESSONS
Parenthood began with toothpaste.
Not danger.
Not paternity tests.
Toothpaste.
“Did you brush?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Sofia glared.
“You don’t know how brushing works.”
“I know lying.”
“That’s rude.”
“Show me.”
Dry toothbrush.
I stared.
She stared.
Then sighed dramatically.
“Mommy is nicer.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.”
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“She’ll laugh.”
Sofia brushed.
Victory.
Elena entered treatment.
She spent long stretches in the hospital.
Some days, she came home.
Others, she couldn’t.
Sofia lived mostly with me in the Queens apartment because changing everything at once seemed cruel.
I learned school pickup.
Hair tangles.
Lunchbox politics.
That socks disappeared for reasons no adult could explain.
I also learned fear.
Every time Sofia coughed, I imagined hospitals.
Every time she was three minutes late leaving school, I wanted ten men searching the neighborhood.
I fought the instinct.
Marco helped.
Sort of.
“You’ve checked the school app nine times.”
“Traffic changes.”
“She is inside the building.”
“What if—”
“Roman.”
I glared.
“You are becoming an Italian mother.”
“I am already Italian.”
“You know what I mean.”
Sofia gradually stopped calling me Roman every time.
Sometimes:
Hey.
Sometimes:
You.
Once, accidentally:
Dad.
She froze.
I froze.
She looked horrified.
“Sorry.”
My chest broke.
“You never apologize for that.”
She stared.
“Was it okay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
Then:
“Roman.”
She grinned.
Little criminal.
Elena improved slowly.
Then suffered an infection.
Three terrifying days.
I sat beside her hospital bed after Sofia fell asleep at home with Marco’s wife.
Elena opened her eyes.
“You look terrible.”
“You have cancer and still insult me.”
“Consistency.”
I smiled.
Then she said:
“If I die—”
“No.”
“Roman.”
“No.”
“You don’t control that.”
The words stopped me.
Of course.
Old Roman wanted to prohibit the sentence.
New Roman listened.
“If I die…”
Her voice shook.
“Sofia stays with you.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Legally.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve already talked to my lawyer.”
“Elena.”
“You’re her father.”
“I know.”
“She loves you.”
My eyes burned.
“She loves you more.”
“That isn’t a competition.”
No.
It wasn’t.
She continued.
“Don’t turn her into a Moretti project.”
I almost laughed.
“Meaning?”
“No security detail following her to prom.”
“No promises.”
“Roman.”
“Fine.”
“No private investigators on boyfriends.”
“Absolutely not.”
She smiled weakly.
“Let her be normal.”
I looked at her.
“I don’t know what normal is.”
“Learn.”
That word defined our entire second chance.
Learn.
I took her hand.
“You’re not dying.”
“Probably not.”
“Good.”
“But say it.”
“What?”
“If something happens.”
My throat closed.
“Sofia stays with me.”
“And?”
“I let her be a child.”
“And?”
I understood.
“I tell her the truth.”
Elena squeezed my hand.
Then she whispered:
“Good.”
She recovered from the infection.
Weeks later, her scans improved.
Not remission.
Progress.
Enough for hope.
Meanwhile, Dominic’s case moved toward trial.
His attorneys attacked Elena’s credibility.
Called her financially motivated.
A former lover.
A sick woman seeking security.
Then they made the mistake of attacking Sofia.
They implied Elena had hidden paternity to extract money later.
I almost exploded.
My attorney stopped me.
Elena stopped me better.
“Roman.”
“What?”
“If you threaten them, you prove their argument.”
I sat.
Hated it.
Did it.
Instead, we produced seven years of records showing Elena had accepted nothing from the Morettis.
No money.
No support.
No contact.
Her poverty became evidence of integrity.
Then prosecutors revealed the strongest proof.
Dominic’s old personal assistant had kept calendars.
The day Elena disappeared:
4:00 p.m. — E. Russo.
5:30 — Bianchi security.
7:00 — letter prepared.
Letter prepared.
Not received.
Prepared.
Forgery.
Then another entry:
11:45 — confirmation bus terminal.
Dominic had someone watch Elena leave.
The whole thing became undeniable.
At trial, Dominic stared at me.
“You would burn the family for her?”
I answered quietly:
“No.”
He smiled.
Then I continued.
“You burned it.”
May you like
His smile disappeared.
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