His Son Stopped Calling Him Papa

“It’s all right, Don Moretti. Go take care of your other child.” My six-year-old son raised one small hand and waved goodbye to his father. Matteo froze. For twenty-eight days, I had been teaching Luca to call him Don Moretti instead of Papa. It started the night Luca was burning with fever. Bianca Bellini sent word that her son was crying for Matteo, and my husband left our sick child without looking back. I held Luca against my chest and whispered, “Say goodnight to Don Moretti.” A week later, Matteo promised to attend Luca’s school presentation. Bianca sent for him again. Tommy had no father to sit beside him, she said. The other boys would laugh. Matteo went. I placed a sheet of paper in front of Luca and handed him a pen. “Write to your teacher,” I said. “Tell her Don Moretti will not be coming.” Every time Luca used the title, he hesitated. Sometimes the words took so long to leave his mouth that I nearly told him he could still call Matteo Papa. Then came the Moretti succession dinner. Matteo had promised to present Luca before every capo and elder, name him as his chosen heir, and give him a permanent seat at the Moretti table. Luca counted the days for two weeks. But outside the estate, Bianca’s driver stopped us with another message. Tommy was crying because the other children said he had no father. Pity crossed Matteo’s face. Before he could explain, Luca waved goodbye. “It’s all right, Don Moretti. Go take care of your other child.” Then he slipped his hand into mine. “Mom and I don’t need a seat at the Moretti table anymore.” Chapter 1 That autumn evening in 1936, Luca’s words stopped both of us outside the iron gates of the Moretti estate. For twenty-eight days, every time Don Moretti abandoned us for Bianca Bellini, I had asked Luca to use his father's title instead of calling him Papa. I told myself I was teaching us both to stop depending on a man who did not choose us, but Luca was six. To him, every forced "Don Moretti" was another small loss. He usually paused before saying it, his mouth working around the title as though it hurt. Today there had been no pause. He looked up at the father he had waited for again and again and said, "Don Moretti, you should go." Then he tugged at my hand. "Mom, let's go inside. The dinner is about to start." His small hand pulled mine toward the iron gates of the Moretti estate. Tonight was the Moretti succession dinner, the formal gathering where the Don presented his chosen heir before every capo and elder. Matteo had arranged it after missing Luca’s Father’s Night at school, promising that this public honor would make up for his absence. He would formally present Luca as his chosen heir and give him a permanent seat at the Moretti table. Luca had been looking forward to it for half a month. Every night, Luca had practiced his introduction in front of the mirror. "My name is Luca Moretti. One day, I will serve the Moretti family as its heir." That morning he asked me to pin the little Moretti crest to his jacket. I did it, though I already knew how easily his father could disappoint him. He had gone to celebrate Bianca's son's birthday. When he came home, he forgot to take the stable pass out of his coat pocket. The Moretti family stables. On Luca's sixth birthday, his only wish had been for Don Moretti to take him there and show him the chestnut pony Don Moretti had once promised would be his. Don Moretti had refused without hesitation. "Childish," he had said. "The stables are not a nursery." But only a few days later, he took Bianca and her son there. I found the photograph Bianca sent him. In it, Don Moretti stood beside the paddock with Tommy in his arms, while Bianca leaned against his shoulder. Behind them was the little chestnut pony Luca had dreamed about for months. On the back of the photograph, Bianca had written in her delicate hand: Every boy deserves a father to teach him how to ride. I stared at the pony longer than I meant to. The three of them looked like a perfect family. Bianca Bellini had grown up beside Matteo. Her father had served Matteo's father, and Matteo treated their shared childhood as a lifelong debt. She had returned from a failed marriage with a son at her side, and every request she made awakened his old loyalty. That night, Matteo and I had the worst fight of our marriage. I insisted on taking Luca and leaving him. Matteo said I was being unreasonable. He asked me how I could bear to let Luca grow up without a father. He swore, again and again, that Bianca was only an old friend and that he merely pitied her. He said a woman raising a fatherless boy alone deserved compassion. I looked at Luca's pale little face. He had been frightened by our argument, his fingers clutching the corner of his pajamas. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. I knew that if I forced Luca away from Matteo right then, my son would spend the rest of his childhood missing him. But I also knew this: once Matteo chose them the first time, he would do it again. Then again. Until Luca learned not to expect anything else. I refused to let my child spend his life being hurt by Matteo's so-called pity. As the Moretti family's legal counsel, I prepared the contracts he signed each morning. I drafted our marital settlement, Luca's custody terms, and Matteo's consent to uncontested divorce proceedings, then buried them in the middle of the stack. The headings were plain; he never looked. Bianca was waiting on the telephone while he signed every marked page, including those that would end our marriage. The law imposed no thirty-day pause. The deadline was mine. During those thirty days, if Matteo turned back, I would try once more for Luca's sake. If he did not, I would use those thirty days to teach Luca how to stop waiting. Today was the twenty-eighth day, and Luca had called him Don Moretti on his own. I felt his little body trembling against my hand, but I was not happy. It hurt in a thin, needling way that would not stop. Just as we were about to cross the courtyard, Matteo finally came back to himself. He took several steps after us, as though he wanted to ask Luca what was wrong. Before he could reach us, a motorcar stopped outside the iron gates. Bianca's driver hurried into the courtyard, hat in hand, and bowed before him. "Miss Bellini sent me, Don. Master Tommy has been crying for you. She says she cannot calm him." Don Moretti stopped. His eyes remained fixed on Luca's small back. For one breath, I thought he might refuse. For one breath, I thought that this time, just once, he might choose his own son. "Is the boy ill?" he asked. "No, Don. He only keeps asking for Papa." Don Moretti was silent for a moment. Then he gave the driver a short nod. "Tell her I am coming." He looked toward me as though he wanted to explain, but all he said was, "We will speak tonight." Then he turned and walked toward the waiting motorcar without hesitation. The engine started behind us, and a moment later, the sound faded beyond the gates. Luca stopped walking. He stood very still until the motorcar could no longer be heard, then threw himself into my arms. His tears soaked through the front of my dress. "Mom," he sobbed, "I don't want Papa anymore. Can it just be us?" Chapter 2 We never entered the dining hall. I took Luca home instead. Then I began to pack. By dusk, I had telephoned the railway office myself and reserved two tickets for Boston the day after tomorrow. While I was folding Luca's clothes into a leather trunk, a messenger from Bianca Bellini arrived. He handed me a cream-colored envelope sealed with pale pink wax. Inside lay the place card prepared for Luca at the main table. Luca's name had been crossed out, and above it someone had written TOMMY BELLINI. It was the same place Luca had practiced for, beside Matteo and beneath the Moretti crest. On the back, Bianca had written one line in her elegant hand. A seat at the Moretti table is not so difficult to get after all. A few weeks earlier, I would have torn the card in half and carried it straight to Matteo's study. I would have demanded to know why Bianca and Tommy had taken Luca's place beneath the Moretti crest while his own son waited outside the gates. Now I looked across the room at my son. He sat on the carpet dividing his toy soldiers into two piles, one to take and one to leave. Watching him choose what remained of his childhood drained the anger out of me. Matteo had already given us his answer. I put the place card back into the envelope and set it aside. The railway clerk had reserved our seats under my name. Two days. In two days, Luca and I would be gone. Not long after, the front door opened. Matteo came home carrying a white bakery box tied with string. The scent of strawberries drifted through the room the moment he stepped inside. Luca and I both froze for a second. Matteo hated strawberries. Because of that, even though Luca had inherited my ridiculous love for them, he almost never chose strawberry cake on his birthday. He would point to Don Moretti's favorite almond torte instead and pretend that was what he wanted. But tonight, Don Moretti had brought home a strawberry tart. He walked in slowly. When he saw the trunks open on the floor, his expression changed. "Why are you packing?" His eyes moved from one trunk to the next. "Are you going somewhere?" I shook my head. Then I nodded. "In a way." In two days, I would add my signature to the settlement and begin the divorce proceedings myself. I did not want anything to go wrong before then. My calm seemed to reassure him. He placed the bakery box on the table. "Tommy was crying badly. I stayed a little longer than I planned." His tone was gentle, almost careful. "On the way back, I remembered you and Luca like strawberries, so I bought this." Neither Luca nor I spoke. Don Moretti looked toward the hall, then back at me. "I know you never came inside," he said. I lowered my eyes. He continued, "I should have come after you. Tomorrow night, I will arrange the dinner again." He turned to Luca and crouched down in front of him. "This time, I won't break my promise." Luca's hands stopped moving. One toy soldier fell from his fingers onto the carpet. He looked at Don Moretti. Then he looked at me. He wanted to believe him. He was terrified of what it would cost. My heart softened. One last time, I told myself. Only this once. "All right," I said. Luca's eyes lit up at once. He gathered his toy soldiers into his arms and ran back to his room, his shoes tapping fast across the floor. After he left, I continued folding clothes into the trunk. Don Moretti came to stand beside me. For once, he did not look impatient. He looked uncertain, which was worse. "Serena," he said slowly, "about what Luca called me today..." My hands paused. Chapter 3 Don Moretti lowered himself beside me and placed the strawberry tart within my reach. His voice softened into the old husbandly tone, the one he used when he still thought he knew how to soothe me. "Serena, I know what you are thinking." He sighed. "You think I have been too kind to Bianca. You think I have neglected you and Luca because of her." I said nothing. Matteo took my hand and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart. "But I swear to you, there has never been anything between Bianca and me." He looked sincere. Or maybe I had spent too many years wanting him to be. "Bianca grew up under this family's protection," he continued. "Her father died serving mine. She is alone with a child, surrounded by men who would gladly tear her apart if they saw weakness. I only pity her. That is all." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "Give me a little more time. I will settle Bianca and Tommy properly. I will make sure you and Luca are never wronged again." I stared at him in silence. I could barely remember the last time he had looked at me this seriously. Maybe it had been on our wedding day. His promises brought back the white church where he had sworn that no harm would reach me, and the day Luca was born, when the feared Don of New York trembled with his infant son in his arms. I had believed him both times. I drew a breath to tell him that I intended to leave. "Matteo, there is something you should know." He released my hand before I could continue. "That brass construction set I bought Luca last year, where did you put it?" I froze. Don Moretti had already risen to his feet. "Bianca said Tommy has recently taken an interest in engines. I'll bring it over for him to play with for a few days." With that, he walked into the study. A few minutes later, he came out carrying the polished wooden box. Luca's favorite birthday gift. The one Don Moretti had bought and then never found the time to build with him. Luca had waited for months. Every Sunday morning, he would open the lid, touch the little brass wheels, and ask me softly, "Do you think Don Moretti will have time today?" And every Sunday, Don Moretti had somewhere else to be. Now he carried the box as if it were any idle toy from a cabinet. He took his coat and left with Luca's construction set under his arm. I remained beside the open trunk and finished the sentence he had interrupted. "Luca and I have stopped waiting for you." In two days, we would be gone. Chapter 4 It was nearly midnight by the time I finished packing. My shoulders ached, and my fingers were stiff from folding clothes and locking trunks. I had just sat on the edge of the bed when the telephone rang downstairs. I went down and answered it myself. Matteo's voice came through the receiver. "Serena, Tommy likes the engine very much. I spent the whole evening helping him build the railway bridge. Bianca asked me to thank you." Midnight. My husband was still in Bianca's house, building the birthday gift he had never found time to build with his own son. Worse, he was passing along her thanks as though the gift had been mine to offer. I nearly laughed, not because anything was funny, but because he remained completely unaware of the hurt he caused. "There is no need to thank me," I said. "That construction set was never mine to give." "It was Luca's favorite birthday present. He has been waiting for his father to build it with him for months." Matteo went silent. I did not wait for his reply. I put down the receiver and returned upstairs. I was tired. The ending had already been decided. The next morning, Matteo returned unusually early. It was barely eight when the front door opened. He came in wearing the same suit from the night before, his coat draped over one arm. The moment he stepped into the parlor and saw the neatly arranged trunks by the wall, he stopped. "Are all of these for a short trip?" Panic sharpened his voice, but it eased when Luca obediently confirmed that we were going somewhere. Matteo told us he had ordered the family stables closed to outsiders that afternoon. The chestnut pony would be saddled, and the riding master would wait for the three of us. "Just the three of us," he said, looking at Luca. Nearly a month had passed since Luca's birthday, when Don Moretti had dismissed the same wish as childish. Luca knew that, but hope still came back at once. He gripped my sleeve. "Mom, I want to go." Before I could answer, Don Moretti cleared his throat. Bianca had heard about Luca's seat at the family dinner and worried that Tommy would be upset, he explained, so the dinner would have to wait. Luca's grip loosened. "Oh," he said. His father kept talking, promising they could hold the dinner another time, as if a later promise could repair the one he was breaking. Don Moretti did not know that we were leaving New York the next day, or that this was the last chance we had allowed him. Luca stared at his hands for a long time before we both agreed. Relief spread across Don Moretti's face. "Good. I'll tell Bianca now. Three o'clock at the stables." At the door he glanced back at us with an affection that arrived far too easily. "My wife. My son. You are both so good to me." After he left, Luca took the satchel he had packed the night before from the wardrobe. His eyes were red, but his voice did not shake. "Mom, I don't want Papa to come with us anymore. Can we leave today?" Chapter 5 I telephoned the railway office and moved our reservation to the three o'clock train that afternoon. There was no reason to pretend we still had another day. I made breakfast in the Moretti kitchen for the last time while Luca took the untouched strawberry tart from the icebox and dropped it into the bin. At ten, I unlocked my legal dispatch case and removed the marital settlement, custody terms, and consent papers Matteo had signed without reading. Under the agreement, Luca would live with me, and Matteo could request visits only if they did not disrupt our son's ordinary life. My signature line remained blank. Before I could sign, another messenger from Bianca delivered a formal photograph developed overnight in the estate darkroom. Matteo sat at the head of the Moretti table, Bianca stood beside him with one hand on his shoulder, and Tommy occupied the chair prepared for Luca. On the back, Bianca had written: The portrait is ready. Tommy and his father both love it. Don Moretti said it should hang somewhere everyone can see. Luca was sitting beside me, folding paper birds from old stationery. He saw the photograph. He said nothing. After a moment, he only pushed the separation papers closer to me. "Mom," he said, "sign it." So I did. The agreement became binding between us the moment my pen left the page, though a court would still have to grant the final decree. At one in the afternoon, Luca and I finished lunch. The trunks were already downstairs. I gave the servants their final instructions, paid the coachman, and took Luca by the hand. For the first time since marrying Matteo, I walked out of that house without looking back. There were still two hours before the appointment at the stables. Two hours before Matteo had promised to meet us there. Luca sat beside me in the carriage with a small leather satchel on his knees. Inside were the few things he had chosen to take: a toy soldier, a school notebook, the little silver crest he had once wanted to wear to the Moretti family dinner, and a stack of photographs tied together with ribbon. He untied the ribbon with careful fingers. The first photograph was from his christening. Matteo held him in his arms before the Moretti elders, his expression proud enough to soften even the hardest faces in the room. The second was from Luca's third birthday. Don Moretti had lifted him onto his shoulders, both of them laughing as though the whole world belonged to them. The third was from earlier that year, before Bianca returned. It showed Don Moretti standing behind Luca in the garden, one hand steadying the bicycle seat while Luca tried to ride without training wheels. Luca looked at the photographs one by one. He did not cry. But grief filled the carriage until even the wheels against the street seemed quieter than usual. I sat beside him and said nothing. At two o'clock, we arrived at Grand Central Terminal. I held Luca's hand and walked toward the Boston platform. Just as we reached the gate, a station clerk hurried over. "Mrs. Moretti?" I stopped. "There is a call for you at the station office." I already knew who it was. I left Luca with the porter and stepped into the office. Don Moretti's voice came through the receiver, rushed and breathless. "Serena, tell Luca I am sorry." Noise crackled behind him: a woman crying, a child sobbing. "Tommy fell. Bianca is terrified. I have to take him to the hospital." His words rushed out, as though he feared I would interrupt. "I may not make it to the stables by three. If you and Luca cannot wait, go home first." Then, as always, he added: "Tell Luca I am sorry." Before I could answer, the line went dead. He had hung up. Just like every time before. He handed me the explanation. He left Luca with the disappointment. When I returned to the platform, Luca looked up at me. I did not need to say anything. Maybe he had already guessed. He lowered his eyes to the photographs in his lap. Luca rested his fingers on the photograph of Don Moretti teaching him to ride a bicycle. Then he untied the ribbon and tore each picture in half. He did it carefully, without crying, and gave the pieces to a porter before taking my hand. "Let's go, Mom." At three, the train pulled away from New York. Luca slept against my shoulder while streets and rooftops gave way to smoke and open sky. I watched the city disappear and finally took a full breath. Matteo was still at the hospital, offering us another apology we were no longer there to receive.