CHAPTER 57
NINA MARCHESI
Nero is sitting at the dining table.
Nero is sitting at my dining table.
Nero is sitting at my dining table, having lunch with our son and me.
I repeat the words in my mind, hoping they’ll start to make sense—because the scene unfolding in front of my eyes doesn’t. I dreamed of this so many times over the years. So many.
Years ago, I made Nero a promise. I promised I would never forgive him for what he was doing to me and to our child.
After Kael was born, I realized that the part of me that wasn’t a mother might have been able to keep that promise—but the other part?
That one never could. Because there is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do for my son.
I could have lived with Nero’s contempt forever if it meant Kael would have everything he deserves. If it weren’t for Lysandra’s madness, I would have done exactly that.
For Kael, I would have swallowed Nero’s unfounded accusations and found a way for us to maintain an amicable relationship despite everything he threw at me.
I did my best to erase Nero from my mind and my heart—and I even had some success.
After the first few years, I stopped thinking about him every time I felt lonely, stopped torturing myself by reliving our last moments—some days the good ones, other days the bad. I even went on a few dates recently.
But I was never able to rip out the desire for my son to know his father. Even if, for five years, that was nothing more than a distant dream.
Now, though, he’s here. Nero is sitting at my dining table, having lunch with my son and me. And I still can’t believe it. I keep thinking I’ll wake up at any moment, terrified, after having the most realistic dream of my life.
And I don’t even know how to feel. Since yesterday, I’ve been trying to figure it out—and failing to identify anything beyond the hope that Nero won’t change his mind.
The only clear feeling inside me is the fear that this is some kind of episode—that tomorrow or the next day he’ll simply leave, doing to my son’s heart exactly what he did to mine. That is the one thing the mother I am could never forgive.
I never intended for Kael to meet him until I could be sure that wouldn’t happen. His presence, the revelation that he was never engaged, the guarantee that he would give up any claim to our son’s custody—everything destabilized me. And when I heard my little boy’s voice, I simply opened the door.
It was a stupid mistake. And of course, of all the things that could have happened, what happened was Kael seeing himself in Nero.
They’re identical, it’s true. And not just in appearance—many gestures and tastes too.
My son is practically a miniature version of his father, even without ever having lived with him.
“I’m done, Mom,” Kael announces.
I blink down at my own plate, still full. Then my eyes move to Kael’s—perfectly empty, even though I didn’t let him donate his broccoli and peppers to Nero.
Nero’s plate is empty too. Even though the vegetables I know he hates were all I put on it. I think I’m allowed to be a little petty, right?
“Very good, love.”
“You didn’t eat everything, Mom,” Kael points out.
I look down again, but not in time to miss the little half-smile tugging at Nero’s mouth. I ignore him.
“Are you too tired to eat again?” Kael asks.
My gaze returns to him, and out of the corner of my eye I see Nero’s expression harden instantly.
“That’s right, sweetheart. Mommy’s just very tired. I’ll eat later,” I reassure him, and he nods.
“Mom, can I take Nero to my room so he can see my heroes?” Kael asks.
I bring my fingers to my temples, massaging the throbbing there. I need to sleep. Or at least try—if the chaos in my head allows it.
“No, love. He needs to leave. We’ll do that another time, okay?”
“Nero,” Kael repeats—and it hits me that between my son’s sudden appearance and his unexpected discovery, Nero was never properly introduced to him.
I should tell him, right? That he’s his father? Kael already knows anyway. But I can’t. And I don’t think anyone could judge me for that. It’s too soon.
It’s definitely too soon for us to be here—sitting together at the table—when Nero reappeared after five years just yesterday. My mind reminds me, mercilessly, that things with Nero were never known for moving slowly. Time was never important to him before.
I answer that reminder with an even harsher one. By refusing to let things unfold in their own time, we ended up where we are. I might not have worried about risking my own heart—but I will not do that with my son’s.
I look at Nero. His expression is simply expectant. No indignation at my immediate refusal, no judgment—nothing. Just resignation and something like… longing? I shake my head, brushing the thought away. He can’t miss what he never had.
“What do you have to do?” Kael turns to Nero and asks.
Nero looks to me for help. It takes effort not to roll my eyes.
“He needs to work,” I say.
“That’s okay,” Kael agrees. “You really do have to work a lot.” His head bobs up and down as he finishes.
“Do I?” his father encourages, amused.
“Yes. Because my birthday’s coming up and I want four presents, because I’m turning four,” he announces.
“One present for each year?” Nero asks, delighted.
I’ve been so lost in my thoughts over the last half hour—just nodding and smiling until Kael told me he was done eating—that this is the first interaction between him and Nero I actually pay attention to.
The undeniable joy on Nero’s face and the ease with which Kael talks to him make my chest tighten.
“That’s right. I always get three. One from Mom, one from Grandma, and one from you,” my son reveals the lie I fed him over the years without realizing what he’s doing. Nero’s eyes widen immediately. “Oh! Thanks for last year’s, Dad.”
The tear that slips down Nero’s face is quick and unstoppable. He blinks, dazed, and I pull Kael’s attention back to me.
“Exactly. Three. Where did you get the idea you want four this year?”
“Because when I was three, three was good.”
“But when you were two, you also got three.”
“I don’t remember, so it doesn’t count,” he decides.
Despite the turmoil in my chest, I still laugh at my son’s cleverness.
Of course he wouldn’t wait for me to decide it was safe to call Nero his father. My son has always been too smart for my sanity—almost four years old and often seeming twice that. Whether that’s personality or a product of our life, I don’t know.
“Why are you crying, Dad?” he asks, ignoring my attempt to distract him.
“I’m not crying,” Nero says, even though his face tells a very different story. “Something got in my eye.”
Kael climbs down from his chair immediately, walks over to Nero, and clamber into his lap.
“Let me blow on it for you.”
It should have been a request—but the way he treats Nero exactly like he treats my mother and me makes it sound like a command.
I expect Nero to freeze, startled by the sudden closeness, unsure what to do—but he wraps his arms around Kael and looks at him with so much love, so much devotion, that a lump forms in my throat.
I remember that look. I remember how it made me feel.
“Which one?” my son asks.
“The right,” Nero answers.
“Mom, which is the right?” Kael turns to me, inviting me into the moment I was watching—both joyful and terrified.
“The one on the same side as the hand you use to hold your pencil.”
He doesn’t answer. He lifts his little right hand to Nero’s eye, pries it open with his thumb and forefinger, blows with all the strength he has, then lowers the eyelid and kisses it.
I look away, hiding my own tear, knowing that no matter what happens from here on out, nothing will ever be the same again.
When my gaze returns to Nero’s a moment later, something passes between us—silent, and yet loud and clear.
Thank you, he says.
Thank you so much.