His Son Stopped Calling Him Papa

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?"