19. Ravi Bonetti

The city lights faded behind me as I left London heading toward the countryside. The heavy traffic gave way to quiet roads, lined with trees whose bare branches swayed in the cold January wind.

There was something comforting about those landscapes. Whenever I came here, I felt my shoulders relax without even noticing. Maybe it was the smell of wet earth or the distant sound of birds that I only heard in that part of the world.

With every kilometer traveled, the pressure of the office, the endless meetings, and the investment problems grew smaller. I needed that break. Perhaps more than I ever had.

When I finally rounded the last curve, the sight of my parents' old farmhouse warmed my chest. The brick house came into view, its porch wrapped in yellowish lights and lace curtains swaying in the breeze—the kind of scene that seemed immune to time.

I parked the car under the old oak tree, turned off the engine, and sat there for a moment, taking a deep breath. For a few seconds, I allowed myself to close my eyes, letting nostalgia wash over me. This was my refuge, my safe harbor.

As soon as I knocked on the door, it opened before I could announce my arrival.

"Ravi!" My mother appeared with the sweetest smile in the world, her apron still tied around her waist and her hands lightly dusted with flour. "I thought you'd only get here later."

"Surprise," I said, hugging her tightly. The smell of freshly baked cake in her hair made me smile.

"Son!" My father appeared behind her, his graying beard neatly trimmed and his calloused hands bearing the marks of a man who had never left the land. "I've told you before, you work too much. You need to come more often."

"I know, Dad. I'll try." I shook his hand firmly before stepping inside.

The house was the same. The same worn rug in the living room, the fireplace crackling softly, and family photos scattered across the walls. Everything so different from the minimalist, silent apartment where I lived in London.

"Sit down, dear," my mother said, already heading back to the kitchen. "Dinner is almost ready."

"Can I help?" I offered, but she just shook her head.

"Your being here is enough. That's all we need."

I sat on the sofa, feeling my body finally relax. My father settled into the armchair next to me, a steaming mug of tea in his hands.

"So?" he began, with that look that always seemed to see through my defenses. "How are things at the company?"

"Busy as always," I replied. "But..." I hesitated, feeling a weight in my chest. "Dad, actually, I wanted to talk about something else."

He raised his eyebrows, curious. Before I could continue, my mother appeared with a tray, setting on the table a hearty beef stew, fresh bread, and a still-warm apple pie.

"What is it, Ravi?" she asked, sitting beside me and placing her hand on mine. "You have a... different look about you."

I took a deep breath. I never imagined this conversation would be so difficult.

"I'm going to be a father," I blurted out, my voice lower than I intended.

Silence settled for a few seconds, only the sound of the fireplace filling the room. My mother's eyes widened, and my father set his mug down on the side table with a soft clink.

"A father?" she whispered, her lips beginning to curve into a restrained smile. "That's... that's wonderful!"

"Is it?" I asked, unable to hide the uncertainty in my voice.

"Of course it is, Ravi!" She held my hands. "You're going to be a great father."

My father, always more reserved with words, just nodded, but there was a gleam in his eyes.

"Tell us about her," he said. "About the mother of the child."

I swallowed hard, running my hand through my hair.

"It's... complicated." I tried to find the right words. "We... we spent a night together. I didn't even know her name until recently. She found out about the pregnancy on her own and... well, she's married to another man now."

My mother's smile faltered a little.

"And you? What do you feel for her?"

"I... I don't know." It was a raw confession. "I can't say I know her. But I want to be present. I want to make sure the baby—my baby—has everything it needs."

My father leaned forward in his armchair, his fingers interlaced over his knee.

"That's already a good start, son. Families don't always begin the traditional way. What matters is love and presence."

My mother squeezed my hand, her eyes teary.

"Ravi, if you want to be part of your child's life, you need to be firm. Show the mother that she can trust you. That you are a safe haven for both of them."

I nodded, feeling the weight of their words.

"And what about her husband?" I asked, the concern slipping into my voice. "I... I feel like something is wrong there. I can't get it out of my head."

"Then trust your instinct," my father said, serious. "But take it slow. Don't pressure her. She must already be under a lot of stress."

We had dinner amid old stories from my childhood, laughter, and the kind of advice only parents can give. For a few hours, I allowed myself to forget the chaos my life had become.

But as I helped my mother clear the dishes from the table, an image surfaced in my mind: Manu with her hands on her belly, her gaze lost on the ultrasound screen.

I didn't yet know what I felt for her. But I knew, with every cell of my body, that I wouldn't rest until I made sure she and our baby were safe.