Isabella
I cup my hand over my eyes as I watch Matteo dart across the field with a ball in front of him, his dark hair bouncing with each step and his honey-gold eyes narrowed in fierce concentration as he lines up his shot.
For one suspended second, everything slows.
There is only my son in motion, all wiry limbs and stubborn determination, the mid-morning sun catching across the crown of his head as he drives forward with that same relentless focus he brings to everything now, whether it is soccer or math homework or insisting he can absolutely bring all the groceries from the car without dropping them the second his feet cross into the entryway.
He leans into the kick at the last possible second, then his foot connects. The ball sails straight ahead, swooping hard past the goalie and catches into the back of the net.
A cheer erupts around the field.
Matteo throws both arms into the air in triumph, his face splitting into a grin with pure, incandescent joy just before three of his teammates barrel into him at once and tackle him to the grass in a laughing, chaotic pile of limbs.
The other boys swarm after them while the referee blows his whistle to get them all back onto the field to play another round.
A few of the parents next to me clap from the sidelines and nod in my direction with easy, warm approval.
“Great shot,” one of the fathers says.
“He’s getting so good,” another mother adds with a smile that reaches her eyes.
I smile back without using my teeth because that is what Marina Hayes does. I stand among them in my simple navy sweater and jeans, my hair pulled back in its usual low knot, and clap with the rest while my stomach twists into knots that have nothing to do with the game.
This should be an ordinary Sunday like any other—a chilly morning turning warm by noon.
Folding chairs dug into the damp grass a few feet from the sidelines, parents sipping their lukewarm coffees and shouting words of encouragement, little kids dressed in oversized jerseys charging up and down the field as if a neighborhood rec league somehow carries the same importance of a world cup.
This is the kind of day I used to ache for without even understanding exactly what I was looking for. From the outside, that is exactly what this looks like.
No one knows that I’ve scanned the perimeter of this field three separate times before kickoff and memorized every parked car near the entrance.
They do not know that I chose this spot on the sidelines because it gives me a clear view of the lot, the path to the bathrooms, and the road beyond the concessions stand because my pulse has been running too fast since the start of this week.
Davide’s visit has settled under my skin like poison, slowly spreading like a cancer I am beginning to no longer be able to ignore. It has changed everything around me without altering a single visible thing.
I clap again as Matteo untangles himself from the heap of laughing boys and gets back to his feet, grinning so hard, the gap in his front teeth show where it is still growing.
He glances toward the sideline immediately, searching for me.
I lift my hand and wave when his eyes latch onto me. His face brightens impossibly further before he runs off toward the opposite end of the field to join the other boys.
He has no idea that while he sleeps at night, I lie awake and replay every word Davide had said until dawn starts peeking through my windows.
Or how guilty I feel to turn down one of my father’s closest allies.
I still have not found a version of this that ends without something dragging us back into a world I thought I left behind years ago.
Matteo bounces on the balls of his feet while waiting for the game to resume.
There is dirt smeared over one knee and one of his socks has already disappeared inside his cleat.
One shoelace is threatening to come undone, but he doesn’t pay it any attention before he surges forward toward the ball as soon as the referee’s whistle blows.
His father would have loved watching him like this.
The thought arrives uninvited, and for a moment I hate myself for even thinking it. I hate him for still existing anywhere inside me after all these years.
For surfacing to my memory in fragments when Matteo runs a certain way or tilts his chin in a flash of defiance or grins after winning as if victory is his birthright.
It is not fair, the resemblance they share.
I cup my hands around my mouth and call his name with the same easy warmth as always. “Go, Teo!”
All the while, my eyes stay trained on the parking lot, following a black SUV with dark tinted windows pulling in from the street.
I wonder if this is how it begins, this new version of survival. Not with running immediately from gunfire or screams after an explosion, but with the quiet corrosion of everything slowly beginning to feel unsettled.
Is this how I will feel now?
Living with the inability to watch a soccer game without mapping an exit strategy or chatting with another mother without wondering how quickly I could get Matteo to the car if I had to?
Will I no longer be able to hear my son laugh without feeling terror twine through the love that continues to make my heart beat?
I hate most of all that fear is trying to taint even something as small as that.
When the game finally ends, I bend to pick up my lawn chair and shake the damp grass from its metal feet before folding it back into its slip.
Around me, the field dissolves into the familiar post-game chaos with coaches calling out reminders for next Saturday’s start time.
Children race in circles, somehow finding a second wind the moment the final whistle blows. Parents gather discarded sweatshirts and cleats and half-empty water bottles, calling names into the warm afternoon air.
I hear Matteo running toward me before I see him. His footsteps are quick and uneven over the grass, his voice reaching me while he is still halfway across the field, already tumbling through words too fast for his breathing to keep up.
“See that, Mom? Two goals on my own! And Luca said the second one was way better because I kicked it from farther out and Coach even said if I keep practicing my left foot, I’m gonna be impossible to block and Tyler only got one and…
” His arms wrap around my waist in the next second, his whole body colliding with mine hard enough to nearly knock me off balance.
A startled laugh leaves me before I can stop it. I plant my foot more firmly into the grass and catch him against me, dropping the folded chair to my side so I can hug him properly.
He is warm and sweaty and breathing hard, his jersey damp at the back, his skin smelling like grass and dirt.
I hold him tighter than I mean to, too tight, maybe. But he only squeezes me harder in return, still buzzing with an uncomplicated joy most adults spend their whole lives trying to find.
When I pull back enough to look at him, I brush his damp hair away from his forehead. It springs right back down, as always.
“I saw. You’re unstoppable, baby,” I tell him, smiling despite the ache in my chest.
He beams up at me.
For a second, it is all open delight, his whole face lit from within, bright and warm and innocent as the morning sun.
Then something changes. It is subtle, so subtle, most people would miss it. But Matteo is not most people. He has my eyes and far too much of my mind behind them.
That unnervingly perceptive stare of his flickers to my smile. His eyes narrow slightly, taking me in with a focus too hardened for a seven-year-old and somehow entirely natural for him.
He has always noticed what I wish he would not.
Unfortunately, my son did not only inherit his father’s face and stubbornness. He inherited me too.
“You okay, Mom?” The question is soft, almost casual, but I hear the real thing underneath it. He knows something is off.
I force my smile to widen, careful not to overdo it. “Of course I am.”
The lie comes easily and I hate that it does. I shouldn’t have to put on a front when it comes to my son. Especially when I feel the walls slowly closing in around us with no way out.
Before he can study me any longer, I tilt my head and add, “How about we make sundaes when we get home?”
Just as quickly as it appeared, Matteo’s scrutiny vanishes beneath pure delight. His eyes brighten, all suspicion washed away by the promise of sugar and celebration. He gasps dramatically. “Really?”
I laugh, more honestly this time. “Yup.”
He throws his arms up over his head with a loud whoop!
Before he can get carried away, I point a finger at him. “After you shower, though.”
The groan I get in response is immediate and theatrical enough to draw a smile from one of the other mothers passing by with a cooler dragging behind her.
“But Moooom,” he drags out, his head tipping back and his body swaying in an effort to fight the urge to collapse onto the grass from sheer dramatics. “I’m not even that dirty!”
I raise a brow and glance down at the streak of grass and dirt running down his shins and the damp collar of his jersey.
He follows my gaze, looks back at me, and sighs. “Okay, fine… but can I have marshmallow sauce and chocolate syrup?”
“We’ll discuss it in negotiations.”
He squints up at me. “That sounds like a yes.”
“That sounds like you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
He grins, already certain he has won.
I sling the folded chair over one shoulder once again, pick up his water bottle and extra pair of cleats with my free hand, and he slips his hand into mine.
His fingers are still slightly sticky, his palm warm as it squeezes mine. We start the walk home hand in hand.
Matteo chatters the entire way, his words bouncing off the sidewalk ahead of us like stones skipping across water.