Chapter 9 - The House Without Locks
We sold the Moretti mansion the following spring.
Leo did not object.
Maya did.
“It has big stairs.”
“You hate stairs.”
“I like looking.”
Fair.
I bought a house outside Austin instead.
Still large.
Security-conscious.
But it looked like a home rather than a fortress.
No iron interior gates.
No hidden meeting rooms.
No cellar anyone could mistake for punishment.
The children chose bedrooms upstairs.
Leo wanted blue walls.
Maya wanted purple, pink, yellow, stars, horses, and “sparkle but not baby sparkle.”
The painter asked me to translate.
I failed.
Caroline began visiting monthly.
At first Leo stayed near me.
Then one Saturday she brought photographs of Ethan as a teenager.
Leo stared for an hour.
“Dad had long hair?”
“Terrible hair,” Caroline said.
I agreed.
Leo laughed.
Maya saw a photograph of Ethan and me fighting with garden hoses at fifteen.
“Uncle Thomas little?”
“Less old.”
“Rude.”
She giggled.
Those visits mattered.
The children needed family beyond me.
I was learning that protecting them did not mean collecting everyone into my orbit.
It meant helping them build choices.
Rebecca remained incarcerated.
She stopped filing custody petitions.
A year into her sentence, she requested permission to send one Christmas card.
Dr. Brooks reviewed it.
Leo and Maya, I am sorry. I do not expect you to answer. I hope you are safe.
Leo chose to keep it in a drawer.
Maya drew on the envelope.
Neither replied.
That was allowed.
Calvin Shaw received a lengthy prison sentence.
Vince Carbone took a plea.
The criminal organization I inherited was effectively gone.
Some legitimate businesses survived.
Moretti Freight became employee-managed under independent executives.
The restaurants remained.
Construction operations passed every audit.
For the first time, I had businesses I could explain completely to a child.
It felt strange.
Good strange.
Then came the anniversary of Ethan’s death.
I dreaded it.
Leo barely mentioned it until breakfast.
“Can we go Dad place?”
“Cemetery?”
He nodded.
Maya asked:
“Bring flowers?”
“Yes.”
At the cemetery, Leo carried white roses.
Maya carried yellow daisies because she said Daddy needed “happy flowers.”
We stood before Ethan’s stone.
ETHAN MICHAEL MORETTI
BELOVED FATHER, BROTHER, FRIEND
Leo touched the letters.
“I walk now.”
My throat tightened.
He had been limping slightly from the old fracture for months, but doctors expected no major permanent problem.
“I think he knows.”
“How?”
I looked up.
“I don't know.”
Leo stared at me.
“Uncle Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Did Dad know we go basement?”
“He started learning.”
“Was he mad?”
“Very.”
“Did he try?”
“Yes.”
Leo nodded.
That mattered.
“He didn't leave us?”
“No.”
“He died.”
“Yes.”
Maya touched Ethan’s photograph attached to the temporary memorial wreath.
“Daddy couldn't come.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“You came.”
My eyes burned.
“Yes.”
She held my hand.
“Good.”
We stayed until the children got restless.
Ethan would have preferred that.
He hated long funerals.
On the drive home Leo asked:
“Are you my dad now?”
The question hit without warning.
I glanced in the rearview mirror.
“No.”
He looked disappointed.
I continued.
“Ethan is your dad.”
“But you're guardian.”
“Yes.”
“What are you?”
I thought.
“Uncle Thomas.”
“That's all?”
I smiled.
“That's already a pretty important job.”
He thought.
“Can you be extra?”
“Extra uncle?”
“Yes.”
Maya shouted:
“Super uncle!”
Leo groaned.
“That's baby.”
I laughed.
“Super Uncle Thomas has marketing potential.”
That evening, I found an old envelope in a box returned by police.
Ethan’s handwriting.
My name.
I opened it.
Not a dramatic confession.
Not evidence.
A letter he wrote years earlier and never sent.
Tom,
I know I act like I hate everything about the Moretti name. I don't. I hate what Dad taught us we had to become to deserve it.
I sat at the kitchen table.
You were sixteen when you started protecting me from him. You probably don't remember half of it. I do.
I remembered.
Too much.
I think that's why I get so angry watching you become more like Dad. You were the first person who taught me he was wrong.
I stopped reading.
The room blurred.
If I ever have kids, I don't want them scared of you. I want them to know the version I knew first. The idiot who stole Dad's car to take me to a concert. The brother who punched a senior because he called me stupid. The guy who sat outside my room after Mom died because neither of us knew what to say.
I laughed through tears.
Maybe that Thomas is still in there.
The letter ended:
If I forget that someday, remind me.
Too late.
But maybe not entirely.
Leo entered the kitchen.
“You crying?”
“Allergies.”
He stared.
“That joke dumb.”
“Agreed.”
“What letter?”
“Your dad.”
He immediately came closer.
“About me?”
“Before you existed.”
“Then boring.”
I laughed.
“Extremely.”
He sat beside me anyway.
I read him appropriate parts.
When I finished, Leo leaned against my shoulder.
“Dad loved you.”
“Yes.”
“You loved Dad.”
“Yes.”
“You fight?”
“All the time.”
“Why?”
“Because brothers are annoying.”
Leo smiled.
“Maya annoying.”
From the hallway:
“I HEARD!”
We both laughed.
Maya stormed in wearing pajamas and one sock.
“Leo mean.”
I opened my arms.
She climbed onto my lap.
Leo stayed against my shoulder.
For a few minutes, nobody said anything.
Then Maya asked:
“Can we stay forever?”
I looked at both children.
Nothing in family court gave me forever.
Nothing in life did.
So I did not make a promise I could not control.
“You can stay for every tomorrow we get.”
Maya frowned.
“That's lots?”
“I hope so.”
Leo whispered:
“Good.”
And for the first time since they crawled to my gate, I realized I was no longer terrified of failing Ethan.
May you like
I was simply trying to love his children today.
Maybe that was enough.
