Part 2His Son Stopped Calling Him Papa

We never entered the dining hall. I took Luca home instead. Then I began to pack.

By dusk, I had telephoned the railway office myself and reserved two tickets for Boston the day after tomorrow.

While I was folding Luca's clothes into a leather trunk, a messenger from Bianca Bellini arrived. He handed me a cream-colored envelope sealed with pale pink wax.

Inside lay the place card prepared for Luca at the main table. Luca's name had been crossed out, and above it someone had written TOMMY BELLINI.

It was the same place Luca had practiced for, beside Matteo and beneath the Moretti crest. On the back, Bianca had written one line in her elegant hand.

A seat at the Moretti table is not so difficult to get after all.

A few weeks earlier, I would have torn the card in half and carried it straight to Matteo's study.

I would have demanded to know why Bianca and Tommy had taken Luca's place beneath the Moretti crest while his own son waited outside the gates.

Now I looked across the room at my son. He sat on the carpet dividing his toy soldiers into two piles, one to take and one to leave.

Watching him choose what remained of his childhood drained the anger out of me. Matteo had already given us his answer.

I put the place card back into the envelope and set it aside. The railway clerk had reserved our seats under my name. Two days.

In two days, Luca and I would be gone. Not long after, the front door opened. Matteo came home carrying a white bakery box tied with string.

The scent of strawberries drifted through the room the moment he stepped inside. Luca and I both froze for a second. Matteo hated strawberries.

Because of that, even though Luca had inherited my ridiculous love for them, he almost never chose strawberry cake on his birthday.

He would point to Don Moretti's favorite almond torte instead and pretend that was what he wanted. But tonight, Don Moretti had brought home a strawberry tart. He walked in slowly.

When he saw the trunks open on the floor, his expression changed.

"Why are you packing?" His eyes moved from one trunk to the next.

"Are you going somewhere?"

I shook my head. Then I nodded. "In a way." In two days, I would add my signature to the settlement and begin the divorce proceedings myself.

I did not want anything to go wrong before then. My calm seemed to reassure him. He placed the bakery box on the table.

"Tommy was crying badly. I stayed a little longer than I planned." His tone was gentle, almost careful.

"On the way back, I remembered you and Luca like strawberries, so I bought this." Neither Luca nor I spoke.

Don Moretti looked toward the hall, then back at me. "I know you never came inside," he said. I lowered my eyes.

He continued, "I should have come after you. Tomorrow night, I will arrange the dinner again." He turned to Luca and crouched down in front of him.

"This time, I won't break my promise." Luca's hands stopped moving.

One toy soldier fell from his fingers onto the carpet. He looked at Don Moretti. Then he looked at me. He wanted to believe him.

He was terrified of what it would cost. My heart softened. One last time, I told myself. Only this once.

"All right," I said. Luca's eyes lit up at once.

He gathered his toy soldiers into his arms and ran back to his room, his shoes tapping fast across the floor.

After he left, I continued folding clothes into the trunk. Don Moretti came to stand beside me. For once, he did not look impatient. He looked uncertain, which was worse.

"Serena," he said slowly, "about what Luca called me today..." My hands paused.