Chapter 5: The Room of Memories
That evening, the sprawling estate felt different. The oppressive silence that had long haunted the hallways had been replaced by the soft, comforting hum of the television in the media room and the faint sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen.
It was approaching nine o’clock. Normally, this was the time Julian poured himself a glass of scotch and buried himself in quarterly financial reports while a nanny handled Matteo's bedtime routine. Tonight, however, the scotch remained in its decanter.
Julian walked into Matteo’s bedroom, carrying a fresh glass of water. Matteo was already in his pajamas, sitting cross-legged in the center of his large bed. However, he wasn't reading a comic book or playing with an action figure.
He was holding a framed photograph.
Julian froze in the doorway, his heart skipping a heavy beat. It was a picture of Isabella, Matteo’s mother. In the photo, she was laughing brightly, her dark hair blowing in the wind on a beach in Nantucket, holding a three-year-old Matteo in her arms.
After Isabella passed away from a sudden, aggressive illness, Julian had dealt with the unbearable grief by burying it. He had quietly removed most of her photographs from the common areas of the house, believing that seeing her face would only prolong the pain for both of them. He had created a sterile environment, hoping to engineer a painless reality.
He had been entirely wrong.
Julian took a slow breath and walked into the room, setting the water glass on the nightstand. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the sudden, heavy weight of the past pressing down on the room.
Matteo didn't look up. His small fingers traced the edge of the silver frame. "I found it in the bottom of my toy chest," the boy murmured, his voice incredibly small.
"I put it there," Julian admitted softly. "A long time ago."
"Why?" Matteo asked, looking up at his father. There was no anger in his eyes, just a profound, echoing confusion. "Did you forget about her?"
The question felt like a physical blow. Julian squeezed his eyes shut for a second, fighting the sudden burn of tears. He realized, in that agonizing moment, what his silence had communicated to his son. By trying to protect Matteo from the pain of loss, he had inadvertently made the boy feel like his mother's memory was something shameful, something to be hidden.
"No, Matteo," Julian said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out and gently placed his hand over his son's. "I never, ever forgot about her. Not for a single second."
"Then why did you hide her?"
Julian swallowed hard. "Because I was scared. I was so sad when she died, and every time I looked at her picture, my heart hurt so much I felt like I couldn't breathe. I thought... I thought if I put the pictures away, it wouldn't hurt as much. And I didn't want you to hurt, either."
Matteo looked back down at the photograph. "But it hurts anyway."
"I know," Julian whispered, a single tear escaping and sliding down his cheek. "I know it does, buddy. And I'm sorry I made you carry that hurt all by yourself. I was wrong."
Julian gently pulled the frame from Matteo’s hands. He looked at Isabella’s radiant, laughing face. The pain in his chest was still there, sharp and heavy, but sharing it with his son somehow made the load bearable.
"You know," Julian said softly, wiping his face, "she had this laugh. It was the loudest, most wonderful laugh in the world. If she thought something was really funny, she would throw her head back and laugh so hard she’d start crying."
Matteo looked up, entirely captivated. "Really?"
"Really," Julian smiled through his tears. "And she made the absolute worst pancakes. They were always burned on the outside and raw on the inside. But we ate them anyway, because she would always put so much syrup on them you couldn't even taste the burned parts."
Matteo let out a small, wet laugh. "Did she like the beach?" he asked, pointing to the photo.
"She loved it," Julian nodded. "She used to spend hours helping you build sandcastles. You were obsessed with making moats."
For the next hour, the financial reports sat forgotten on Julian’s desk downstairs. Instead, the CEO sat on his son’s bed, unlocking a vault of memories he had kept sealed shut for three years. He told Matteo about how his parents met, about Isabella’s terrible singing voice, and about how much she had fiercely, unconditionally loved her little boy.
They cried, but they also laughed. The room, once a chamber of silent isolation, was slowly filling with the light of a shared history.
Eventually, Matteo's eyes grew heavy. He slid down under the covers, clutching the silver frame tightly against his chest.
Julian pulled the heavy duvet up, tucking it gently around his son’s shoulders. He leaned down and pressed a long, tender kiss to Matteo’s forehead.
"Can we keep the picture out?" Matteo murmured, his eyes drifting shut.
"We can put it right here on the nightstand," Julian promised, gently taking the frame and standing it upright next to the water glass. "And tomorrow, we’ll find a place for it downstairs, too."
"Okay," Matteo sighed, a soft, contented sound. "Goodnight, Dad."
May you like
Julian paused in the doorway, his hand resting on the light switch. It was the first time in years he felt like he had actually earned the title.
"Goodnight, Matteo," Julian whispered. He turned off the main light, leaving only the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the smiling face in the photograph, keeping watch over a boy who finally felt safe enough to sleep.
