Bell had barely slept the night before.
Even after work, even after Enzo had gone to bed — she'd just stood there in the hallway outside his room, staring at the quiet rise and fall of his chest. The innocence of it. The peace.
And now, two days later, the sun was casting lazy golden stripes across the floor of the living room, and Enzo was curled up on the couch, legs tucked under him, flipping through a book about planets.
Bell sat down beside him slowly.
"Hey, baby?" she said softly.
He looked up at her, wide green eyes that always caught the light in a way that made her heart ache. "Yeah?"
She brushed a hand over his hair, trying to steady herself.
"Can I talk to you for a minute? About something kind of… big?"
He blinked at her, curious, setting his book down. "Am I in trouble?"
She let out a soft laugh. "No. No, sweetheart. Not even a little."
He nodded, sitting up straighter.
Bell took a breath.
"So… you know how it's always been me and you, right? Since you were tiny?"
He nodded slowly.
"Well… there's someone who's come back. Someone from before you were born. And he wants to meet you."
Enzo tilted his head. "Who is it?"
Bell hesitated — then she reached for his hand.
"It's your father, Enzo."
His little brows knit together in confusion, but he didn't pull away.
"I thought I didn't have one."
Bell swallowed. "I never wanted you to think that. You do have a father. I just… didn't know how to tell you before. He didn't know about you for a long time. But now he does. And he's asked if he can meet you."
Silence.
Enzo looked down at her hand around his, then up at her again.
"Do I have to?" he asked quietly.
Bell's heart clenched.
She shook her head immediately.
"No. Absolutely not. This isn't something you have to do, okay? I'm telling you because you deserve to know. And because you're allowed to choose."
She leaned closer, her voice a gentle whisper now.
"If you want to meet him, I'll be right there with you. If you don't want to… then that's okay too. You're not wrong, either way. It's about how you feel. What you want."
Enzo was quiet for a long moment. Then he asked,
"Do you think he's nice?"
Bell's throat tightened. "I think… he's trying to be. I think he's made mistakes, but he's trying."
Enzo looked at his lap, then back up at her. "Can I think about it?"
She nodded. "Of course you can."
Then he wrapped his arms around her, holding tight. "I love you, Mommy."
Bell closed her eyes, hugging him back with every part of her soul. "I love you more."
…..
Nearly a week had passed since Bell sat Enzo down on the couch and told him the truth.
She hadn't pushed. Hadn't asked again. Hadn't hinted or hovered. She let him carry it quietly, like she knew he needed to.
It was a Friday afternoon, and the rain outside tapped against the windows in a soft, steady rhythm. Bell was in the kitchen, finishing dishes, her mind a thousand miles away.
"Mommy?"
She turned quickly. Enzo stood in the doorway. His curls were a little messy, socks mismatched — one red, one navy. He was holding a drawing in his hand, crumpled just a little at the edge.
Bell dried her hands slowly. "Yeah, baby?"
He walked up to her, standing close.
"I thought about what you said."
Bell crouched down to meet his eyes. "Okay."
Enzo shifted his weight from foot to foot, the paper still clenched in his fingers. Then he looked at her and said, softly but clearly:
"I want to meet him."
Bell's breath caught — not in panic. In something else. In disbelief, in pride, in that bittersweet ache only a mother knows.
"Are you sure?" she asked gently.
He nodded. "Yeah. I… I want to know who he is. And maybe just see if he has the same eyes as me."
Bell gave a soft laugh, her eyes already glassy. "You do have his eyes, sweetheart. And his smile when you're trying not to laugh."
Enzo smiled faintly, then held up the drawing. "I made this. For him. In case… in case he wants it."
Bell took it delicately — a drawing of a little boy and a tall man standing next to each other. In blocky handwriting across the top, it said:
"Hi. I'm Enzo."
She looked at it for a long moment, then pulled him into her arms and kissed the top of his head.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll tell him."
....
Saturday morning in the city carried its own kind of hush. The streets were slower, the air cooler. Bell had dropped Enzo off at her parents' house — kissed his forehead, told him she'd call later — and now she stood in front of the towering glass exterior of the Borsany building, nerves threading their way through her stomach.
She didn't have Alessandro's number.
Not anymore.
Not after all these years. Not after all that silence.
But she stepped forward anyway.
Inside, the lobby gleamed — sharp lines, cold marble, and warm light pouring through the tall windows. She walked up to the front desk, told them who she was there for. A few moments later, she was buzzed up to the top floor.
She hoped she'd be let in. She hadn't called ahead. Hadn't even been sure she would come.
But she was here now.
Alessandro's secretary looked up as Bell stepped into the private office wing.
"Miss Casanova," she said, surprised but not unkind. "He's in his office. Let me see if—"
"You can tell him I'm here," Bell said, smoothing a hand over her braid. "If he's not busy."
The secretary pressed a button on her desk, spoke quietly into a small intercom. A pause.
Then she nodded. "You can go in."
Bell took a slow breath and crossed the polished floor, heels soft against the smooth tile. She pushed the office door open.
Alessandro was standing at the window, hands in his pockets. No suit jacket today — just a black shirt, sleeves pushed to his forearms, top button undone. His hair was slightly tousled like he hadn't slept much.
He turned when she entered.
"Bell," he said — not cold, not angry. Just… surprised. Maybe a little cautious.
She nodded. "I didn't call. I know."
"It's okay," he said after a beat. "I'm glad you came."
She walked toward him slowly, stopping a few feet away.
"I told him," she said softly. "About you."
He didn't breathe for a second.
"And?"
"He wants to meet you," she said. "He's curious. He drew you a picture."
That made something crack, just slightly, behind Alessandro's eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asked, like he needed to hear it again.
"Yes," Bell said. "But I need you to understand something, Alessandro. You don't just get to show up once and disappear again. If you're going to be in his life… you stay. You show up. You don't hurt him."
Alessandro nodded, jaw tight. "I won't. I swear I won't."
Bell watched him for a moment, as if trying to believe it — or trying to remind herself this wasn't the boy who walked away under that oak tree.
"Okay," she said at last, voice quieter. "Then we'll figure it out."
And with that, she reached into her purse, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to him.
The drawing.
Blocky letters. Two stick figures. And the words:
Hi. I'm Enzo.
Alessandro stared at it — and didn't say anything for a long time.
Bell watched him. Watched his brows knit faintly. Watched his thumb trace the edge of the wrinkled paper.
And in that moment, she saw it.
Just a flicker — brief and buried beneath the weight of age and grief and all the years in between — but it was there.
That boy.
The one who held her hand under the oak tree. The one who smiled with his eyes. The one who used to kiss her like it meant forever.
She swallowed tightly, clearing her throat. Her voice was steady, but soft.
"We'll need each other's numbers," she said. "If you want to find a good time to meet him."
His eyes lifted, the words pulling him back to the room.
He nodded slowly, reaching into his back pocket for his phone — the new one, the one with none of their history, none of her saved.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "You're right."
He handed it to her, unlocked.
Bell entered her number, handed it back.
Then he opened a new message and sent her a single dot.
Her phone buzzed in her purse.
"I'll text you later," he said, still staring down at the drawing. "We'll figure something out."
Bell nodded.
She didn't stay any longer than she had to. There was nothing more to say, not right now.
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door, glancing back.
He was still standing there, one hand on the windowsill, the paper in his other hand — held like something fragile.
She didn't say anything.
And this time, he didn't let her walk away without watching.