Chapter 10 - THE EMPTY CHAIR BESIDE HIS FATHER
“Will you come with Daddy?”
Matteo waited for my answer.
Dante stood beside him, holding his son's small hand.
I looked from one face to the other.
“Does your school allow visitors?”
Matteo nodded.
“Family day.”
The words landed softly between us.
Family.
I wasn't Matteo's mother.
I wasn't related to him.
A week earlier, I had been a waitress he had never met.
But somehow, that little boy had decided I belonged in a place usually reserved for people who had known him all his life.
Dante crouched beside his son.
“Matteo, Sophie may have other plans. We should ask, not decide for her.”
Matteo considered this.
Then he looked at me again.
“Please?”
I smiled.
“I'd love to come.”
He tapped the table four times.
Then he ran to retrieve his school backpack.
Dante watched him disappear into the hallway.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You don't have to thank me.”
“Yes, I do.”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because for years, I thought protecting him meant controlling everything around him.”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“I forgot that he also needs people willing to listen.”
I didn't know what to say.
So I told him something true.
“Danny taught me that.”
The next morning, Matteo's school held a small family art exhibition.
It wasn't a grand event.
No photographers had been invited.
There were paper decorations, folding chairs, and children's paintings taped to the walls.
But to Matteo, it mattered more than any billionaire gala.
He had spent three weeks making a picture for the exhibition.
His teacher, Ms. Parker, greeted us warmly.
“Matteo has been talking about his artwork all morning.”
Dante looked surprised.
“He has?”
She smiled.
“In his own way. He's been very clear about where he wants it displayed.”
Matteo led us to the far wall.
His painting showed a blue house beneath a bright yellow sun.
Four windows lined the front.
Beside the house stood three figures.
A tall man.
A little boy.
And a woman wearing a green dress.
I looked at the woman.
“Who's that?”
Matteo pointed at me.
“Sophie.”
My throat tightened.
Dante stared at the painting.
“Matteo, is that our house?”
The boy nodded.
Then he touched the small figure between us.
“Me.”
I had to look away.
Not because I was sad.
Because I was afraid of how much that picture meant to me.
Halfway through the exhibition, an unexpected problem arose.
A parent recognized Dante.
Then she recognized me.
She whispered something to another parent.
Within minutes, I heard my name.
“That waitress from the news.”
“Didn't she accuse his family of covering up a death?”
“Why is she here?”
I felt the familiar humiliation returning.
This was a school.
Matteo's school.
He deserved a peaceful morning.
I quietly stepped toward the hallway.
Dante followed.
“Where are you going?”
“Just outside for a minute.”
“Because of them?”
I tried to smile.
“I don't want Matteo's day becoming another spectacle.”
Dante looked through the classroom window.
Our little boy was showing his painting to a teacher.
Then Dante said something I didn't expect.
“Neither do I.”
He went back inside.
I watched him speak briefly with the school principal.
Then he approached the parents.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't threaten anyone.
He simply said, “My son deserves to enjoy his school day. Sophie is here because Matteo invited her. Please respect that.”
One woman looked embarrassed.
Another apologized.
The conversation ended.
I stood in the hallway feeling strangely unsteady.
Dante came back.
“You didn't have to do that,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
He opened the classroom door.
“Come on. He's waiting.”
After the exhibition, Matteo wanted ice cream.
Dante suggested a fancy restaurant.
Matteo shook his head.
“Park.”
So we went to a small ice cream stand near Central Park.
Dante, a man whose businesses occupied half a dozen office towers, stood in line holding three paper napkins.
Matteo chose vanilla.
I chose strawberry.
Dante ordered coffee ice cream and immediately discovered his son thought it tasted terrible.
Matteo made a face.
“Yuck.”
I laughed.
Dante laughed too.
It was the first time I'd heard him laugh without restraint.
For a few minutes, we were ordinary people enjoying an ordinary afternoon.
Then Matteo noticed an elderly man sitting alone on a bench.
The man was struggling to fasten his jacket with trembling fingers.
Matteo watched him.
Then he looked at me.
“Help?”
I nodded.
“We can ask.”
Dante approached the man and offered assistance.
The man smiled gratefully.
Matteo watched his father carefully.
Then he looked at me.
“Daddy helps now.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Yes, sweetheart. He does.”
That evening, I returned to my apartment.
My mother was waiting with dinner.
She had made Danny's favorite macaroni and cheese.
We ate together at the kitchen table.
For the first time, talking about Danny didn't end with one of us leaving the room to cry.
Mom asked about Matteo.
I showed her the painting.
She smiled.
“That boy has a good heart.”
“He does.”
She studied me.
“You're getting attached.”
I looked down.
“I know.”
“Does that scare you?”
“More than I expected.”
She reached across the table.
“Loving somebody doesn't mean you're replacing Danny.”
My eyes filled.
“I know.”
But part of me still felt guilty.
As though finding joy again meant leaving my brother farther behind.
Then my mother handed me a small envelope.
“I found this in Danny's memory box.”
Inside was a photograph of Danny wearing his yellow scarf.
On the back, in his uneven handwriting, were the words:
SOPHIE ALWAYS COMES BACK FOR ME.
I covered my mouth.
Mom touched my shoulder.
“He knew you loved him.”
I cried for a long time.
When I finally looked up, my mother said something that stayed with me.
“Maybe this time, sweetheart, you get to love somebody without being afraid you'll lose him.”
The following morning, Dante invited me to discuss a new position with the foundation.
I almost refused.
Then Matteo appeared beside him during our conversation, holding the blue-house painting.
He looked at me.
“Sophie, can I ask something?”
“Of course.”
May you like
His fingers tightened around the paper.
“Did Danny know he was brave?”
