Chapter 3
The drive took an hour.
We left the city behind.
We drove through the countryside.
My mother didn't speak the whole time.
She stared out the window, her face pale and tense.
I sat between them, quiet, watching everything.
My father occasionally glanced at me in the rearview mirror.
Each time, he smiled.
It was a small smile. But it was real.
We arrived at a big house surrounded by high walls and iron gates.
Security cameras were everywhere.
Guards stood at the gate.
They saluted as we drove through.
The house was beautiful.
Big. White. With columns and a long driveway.
It looked like something out of a movie.
My father stopped the car in front of the house.
Men in suits opened the doors for us.
"Welcome home, sir," one of them said.
My father nodded.
He got out and came around to open my door.
He helped me out.
"Welcome home, son," he said.
I looked up at the big house.
"Home?" I said.
"Home," he confirmed.
My mother got out of the car.
She looked at the house. At the guards. At all the men in suits.
She looked at my father.
"This is... a lot," she said.
"I know," my father said. "But it's safe. No one will hurt you here. No one will hurt our son."
A woman came out of the house.
She was middle-aged, with kind eyes and gray hair pulled back in a bun.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, bowing slightly. "Welcome home."
"Thank you, Maria," my father said. "Please prepare rooms for my wife and son. And have the doctor come. My son has been hurt."
Maria looked at me. Her eyes softened when she saw my leg.
"Of course, sir. Right away."
She hurried back inside.
My father took my hand.
"Come on," he said. "Let's get you inside."
The inside of the house was even more beautiful than the outside.
Marble floors. High ceilings. Expensive furniture.
But it also felt warm. Lived-in.
There were photographs on the walls.
Photographs of my father.
And some... some of my mother.
And some of a baby.
Me.
My father saw me looking.
"I kept them," he said softly. "All of them. I never stopped thinking about you. Either of you."
My mother looked at the photographs.
Her face softened. Just a little.
The doctor arrived a few minutes later.
He checked my leg. My hands.
He cleaned my wounds. Put bandages on them. Gave me medicine for the pain.
"It's not too bad," he said. "The bruise on your leg will heal in a week or two. Your hands are just irritated from the soap and water. They'll be fine."
He looked at my father.
"He's going to be okay, Mr. Moretti."
My father nodded, relieved.
"Thank you, Doctor."
After the doctor left, Maria showed us to our rooms.
My mother's room was beautiful. Big. With a king-sized bed and a balcony.
My room was even more amazing.
It was bigger than our entire old house.
It had a huge bed. A desk. A bookshelf full of books. A television. A video game system.
And on the bed...
A brand new soccer ball.
I loved soccer.
But Richard had never let me play. Said it was a waste of time.
I looked at my father.
"How did you know?" I asked.
"I asked around," he said. "I've been... watching you. For a while. Making sure you were okay. Even when I couldn't be here."
He sat down on the bed beside me.
"I know this is a lot to take in," he said. "I know you have questions. And I'll answer all of them. But first... are you hungry? Maria makes the best lasagna in the whole state."
My stomach growled.
I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
I nodded.
My father smiled.
"Good. Let's go eat."
We went downstairs to the dining room.
My mother was already there.
She looked a little better. More relaxed.
But she still wouldn't look at my father.
We ate in silence for a while.
The lasagna was amazing.
Better than anything I had ever tasted.
Finally, my father spoke.
"I know you both have questions," he said. "About where I've been. About what happened. About why I faked my death."
He looked at my mother.
"And I'll tell you everything. All of it. But not tonight. Tonight, you both need to rest. Tomorrow, I'll answer every question you have. I promise."
My mother nodded slowly.
"Okay," she said.
That night, I lay in my big, comfortable bed.
I stared up at the ceiling.
I thought about Richard.
About the garage.
About the towel hitting him in the face.
About my father appearing in the doorway.
About the big house. The guards. The beautiful room. The soccer ball.
I pinched myself.
Hard.
I wasn't dreaming.
It was all real.
My father was alive.
I was safe.
May you like
And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was home.
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