Chapter 3 - The Address on 8th Street — A Little Boy with Familiar Green Eyes
I didn't pack a bag. I grabbed my car keys, ignored Charlotte’s desperate cries
from the top of the staircase, and stormed out of the house. The tires of my
rental sedan screeched against the brick driveway as I accelerated into the
humid Miami morning.
The drive from Coral Gables to Little Havana took twenty minutes, but to me, it
felt like an eternity stretched across five wasted years. Every memory of my
marriage to Camilla rushed back: the tiny one-bedroom apartment we had shared in
college, the way she made coffee with too much cinnamon, the late nights she
spent balancing my company’s chaotic spreadsheets while I slept with my head on
her lap.
When we broke down, it hadn't been lack of love; it had been the relentless,
suffocating interference of my mother, who convinced me that Camilla was holding
me back, and the sudden appearance of Charlotte—a girl whose family held the
keys to the elite venture capital world I thought I needed.
I parked outside 1142 SW 8th Street. It was a sun-bleached, two-story apartment
complex with rusted iron railings and window air conditioning units that dripped
water onto the sidewalk.
I climbed the narrow concrete stairs to Apartment 3B, my heart pounding so hard
against my ribs that my chest ached. I raised my hand and knocked on the peeling
teal door.
A moment later, the lock clicked. The door opened slowly, revealing Camilla. She
had changed out of her airport uniform into faded denim jeans and an oversized
gray t-shirt. Her eyes widened in shock, then instantly hardened.
“How did you find this address, Lucas?”
“Mom’s safe,” I said, my voice cracking. “I saw the file. I saw the ultrasound,
Camilla. I saw the investigator’s photos.”
Her face lost all color. She reached for the edge of the door, leaning against
it as if her legs were giving out. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you get on a plane to Toronto and tell me
yourself?”
“To tell you what?” she whispered, tears suddenly spilling over her lower
lashes. “That your mother threatened to take my child away through high-priced
custody lawyers before he even drew his first breath? She told me you approved
of it. She told me you had already moved on with Charlotte and that if I made a
scene, you would use your family’s money to declare me unfit.”
“I would never have done that! I loved you, Camilla!”
“You left!” she cried out, her voice breaking the quiet of the hallway. “You
walked away when your mother told you to jump, and you didn’t look back once!”
Before I could answer, a small voice chirped from behind her.
“Mama? Who is at the door?”
A little boy, no taller than my waist, peeked out from around Camilla’s legs. He
was clutching a battered red toy racecar. He had my messy black hair, my sharp
jawline, and eyes that were the exact emerald shade of my own.
He looked at me, tilted his head, and asked, “Are you the pilot from the
airport?”
May you like
I dropped to my knees right there on the concrete threshold, the tears blurring
my vision completely. “No, buddy... I’m not a pilot.”
