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“I’m a pitcher,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning up.
“My dad can play ball. Your grandpa is one of the best I’ve seen.”
“I have another grandfather?” he asks, those blue eyes hopeful.
“Yeah, he lives in Italy, but I know he would love to meet you both.”
“I would like that,” he says, beaming. “Did mom tell you we used to live in Rome?”
“She did,” I say, my voice hoarse while I look in her direction. She’s watching us with tears in her eyes, but a smile on her beautiful face. I can’t believe my son is here with me. I can’t believe they’re both mine.
Without warning, he hugs me, and I let him. I hold my boy close to my chest. “Thanks, Dad,” he says after his body stops trembling.
I have to clear my throat through the lump I feel. “Why, son?” I whisper, my voice hoarse and low.
“For not letting us go.”
