Luca woke up to sunlight streaming through the window of his simple but cozy bedroom. The smell of fresh coffee and warm bread drifted in from the kitchen.
At the table, Ana, his mother, was gently preparing breakfast. Her green eyes, bright like dew-covered leaves, held strength even when her heart was heavy. Her hair, loose, was a color hard to define — somewhere between sun-kissed blonde and light brown.
Carlos Moretti, Luca's father, was kneeling on the floor in the corner of the room, carefully tying his son's cleats.
"Today's the day, champ," he said with a smile. "Your first official match! This will be the beginning of your story."
Luca, excited, took a bite of bread and asked:
"Mom, Dad… you're coming to my game, right? I'm going to score my first goal!"
Carlos stood up, his eyes gleaming:
"Of course we are! Wouldn't miss it for anything."
But just before they could leave together, Carlos's phone rang. He answered, and his expression changed.
"Love… it's my boss. He needs me quickly, just for a bit. I swear I'll make it in time."
Ana hesitated, then nodded.
"Alright. Be careful."
Carlos kissed Luca on the forehead, ruffled his hair, and left in a hurry.
The field was buzzing with excited voices, dust, and anticipation. Luca, just eight years old, wore his team's jersey with pride, but also with a nervous heart.
He scanned the small crowd anxiously, searching for his father's face. But all he saw was his mother.
Ana waved with a fragile smile, trying to hide the emptiness in her chest. Carlos hadn't arrived yet.
Luca ran to her before the game started.
"Mom, Dad's still coming, right? He won't miss my first goal..."
Ana knelt, holding her small hand gently.
"He's doing everything he can to be here, my love. He's always with us."
With that silent promise, Luca walked onto the field.
The game was about to start, so he ran to the field.
The field was small, uneven, made of dry earth and patches of grass. On one side, parents cheered from simple wooden stands, holding handmade signs and juice boxes. The sun was high, the air was dry, and the electricity was out.
Luca, wearing the local team's green jersey, stood in the middle of the field. His socks were falling down, and one of his laces had already come undone—but none of that mattered. He was focused. This was his moment.
The game began in chaos—like every match between eight-year-olds. Some players chased the ball like a swarm of bees. Others stood still, distracted by a butterfly or waving to their parents.
Luca, however, was different. He watched. He waited.
In the 15th minute, a loose ball rolled toward him. He saved it with his right foot, raised his head, and—without thinking—shot with precision. The ball sailed over the goalkeeper (who was busy adjusting his gloves) and into the back of the net.
"GOAL!" shouted the little announcer with a toy megaphone—one of the coaches' sons.
Luca didn't celebrate like a star. He just smiled, wide and proud, looking back up at the stands—hoping to see his father. But only Ana was there, smiling bravely.
In the second half, the other team pressed harder. A chubby striker in a red shirt ran toward Luca but tripped over his own feet. The ball fell to the ground. Luca collected it, dodged two defenders, and then passed it to his teammate, Matheus, who stood in front of the goal shouting, "PASS, PASS, I'M FREE!" Matheus scored. It was a draw: 1-1.
The clock ticked. The dust rose. Parents shouted encouragement and rules they barely understood.
In the final minute, Luca dribbled past a defender who had stopped to adjust his shin guard. He cut inside and shot. The ball bounced off a small rock but curved just enough—and slipped past the goalkeeper's hand.
3-1.
The referee, a teenager with a whistle too big for his mouth, blew the final whistle.
Ana was beaming in the stands. Her green eyes shone, her heart pounding—not with worry, but with pride. She watched Luca, her little star, just eight years old, run across the field as if he'd been born for it. Two goals. An assist. A talent that made all the sacrifice worthwhile.
She clapped, shouted his name, raised her arms like the proudest mother in the world. Her smile was wide, sincere, and radiant.
Five minutes into the game, a man approached with a tense expression. He was well-dressed, but his face betrayed urgency and pain.
"Mrs. Ana... can I speak to you? It's important..."
She hesitated, her eyes still glued to the field.
"Now? My son is playing..."
"It's about Carlos..."
Her husband's name made her catch her breath.
—"There was an accident. The car... rolled over. He... he didn't survive."
The world stopped.
Ana staggered as if she'd been kicked in the chest. Her hands trembled, her eyes instantly filling with tears. She tried to say something, but her voice wouldn't come.
And then, she fell to her knees on the floor of the stands, covering her face as heavy sobs shook her body.
Luca, still on the field, heard only the muffled scream. When he looked at his mother, he saw her fallen, crying.
The smile on his face instantly disappeared. Without thinking, he ran. His tiny cleats slapped the dry earth, sweat trickled down his temples, but nothing else mattered.
—"Mom?! Mom! What happened?!"
He approached, hugging her expressionlessly. He looked around, confused, searching for his father.
But his father... was nowhere to be found.
Ana tried to hold back her tears, but couldn't. She just hugged her son tightly, saying nothing.
Luca felt a strange knot in his stomach. His heart tightened. His eyes began to water. He no longer heard the fans' applause, no longer saw his teammates celebrating.
Only after a few minutes of silence, feeling his mother collapse in his arms, did he understand.
"Dad... you're not coming anymore, are you...?"
And then, the shock gave way to tears.
Luca cried like he had never cried before.
That day, the biggest game of his life also became his greatest loss.
The months that followed…
The house, once filled with laughter and the scent of coffee, was now filled with a heavy, almost suffocating silence.
Luca had changed.
He withdrew into his own world, increasingly distant from his friends, school, and even his mother.
He didn't want to play, he didn't want to talk, he didn't even want to leave his room.
The ball that had once been his faithful companion was forgotten in a dusty corner.
Ana spent hours trying to reach him, but the bedroom doors seemed like insurmountable walls.
—"Luca… son, come eat some."
—"Luca, let's go for a walk?"
—"Son, tell me how you're feeling…"
But all she received was silence.
He avoided looking at her, pulling his arms away when she tried to hug him.
Ana then began to blame herself.
Sleepless nights, tears hidden in the pillow.
— "If I had held him tighter that day…"
— "If I had gone in Carlos's place…"
— "If I had been stronger…"
Guilt consumed her.
And that only increased her son's pain.
Luca's smile had disappeared.
He barely ate, barely slept.
The vibrant boy had become a broken boy, hidden behind an agonizing silence.
Ana knew she needed to do something, but she didn't know what.
And each day that passed seemed harder than the last.
Days later
One night seemed darker than usual. The rain beat lightly against the window, as if the sky, too, was tired of crying.
Luca lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to dream. Because every dream ended the same way: with his father smiling… and then disappearing.
From across the house, a sound pierced the silence. A sob.
Slowly, Luca got up. His bare feet made little sound on the cold floor. He stopped in front of his mother's bedroom door. It was ajar. He took a deep breath. He looked.
Ana was on the floor, kneeling, hugging a faded blue shirt—the last one Carlos had worn on the day of the accident. His scent was still there. She buried her face in the fabric as if that would be enough to bring him back.
She was crying. But it was different from the suppressed sadness she displayed around her son. It was a free, desperate, raw cry.
"You promised, Carlos..."—her voice faltered—"You promised you'd be with us... that you'd watch our Luca grow up..."
She was trembling. She held onto the fabric as if it were the only anchor keeping her world from sinking completely.
"I hate you for leaving. For not coming back. For leaving our son waiting for you in the stands, with that anxious little smile... thinking you'd come."
The tears flowed uncontrollably. Ana looked up at the ceiling, as if waiting for some answer.
"You knew how much he needed you... and yet..."
She screamed, piercing the silence of the house:
"OUR SON IS DEPRESSED, CARLOS!"
Luca, outside, felt as if something inside him were tearing as well. His mother's words pierced like knives.
"He doesn't eat... he doesn't speak... he doesn't smile anymore. He's lost himself with you."
Ana pressed her forehead to the floor, whispering now:
"And I don't know what to do anymore... I try, I try every day... but it's so dark in here, Carlos. So dark."
Silence. And then, in a lower voice, almost imperceptible:
"I hate you for leaving us... but I love you so much it hurts."
She closed her eyes, clutched her shirt to her chest, and murmured, as if speaking to her own heart:
"You were the love of my life... and always will be."
Luca leaned against the hallway wall. Tears streamed down his face. For the first time in months, he was truly crying. Not just for his pain, but for her pain as well.
He realized he wasn't alone in his grief. That his mother was also broken... trying to put them back together.
And in that moment, even in silence, mother and son began to reconnect—in the sadness they shared... and in the love that still lingered.
At dawn...
Luca woke to the strange silence that filled the house. The sun was already streaming through the window, but something was wrong. Very wrong.
He left the room slowly, his bare feet touching the cold floor of the hallway. He stopped in front of his mother's half-open bedroom door. He pushed it open carefully.
What he saw made his heart stop.
Ana was lying on the floor, curled up on her side, her hair falling around her face, motionless. She looked asleep, but there was something about the way her body was... as if the weight of the world had finally overcome her.
"Mom?" Luca called softly. Nothing.
He approached, his heart racing. He knelt beside her and touched her arm.
—"Mom… wake up… it's me, Luca…"
No answer.
A lump formed in his throat. Desperation began to grow. He held her hand tightly.
—"Mom… please, don't do this… wake up… I promise I'll go back to playing soccer! I promise I'll eat everything you make! Even the soup!"
Tears streamed down the boy's face.
—"I… I promise I'll be strong… that I'll be the best player in the world, just like Daddy used to say… but you have to wake up, okay? Please… please, Mom…"
Suddenly, Ana's eyes fluttered open. She blinked, confused, and found her son's face wet and desperate.
—"Luca…?"
He sobbed with relief and threw himself at her, hugging her tightly.
— "Mom… I thought you… that you wouldn't wake up…"
Ana wrapped her arms around him, weak, but with immense love.
— "I'm sorry, my son… I'm sorry…"
And there, on the cold floor, they clung to each other as if the world could fall apart, as long as they were together.
A few days later…
After that morning when he saw his mother collapse, something changed in Luca. The pain was still there—deep, silent—but he was already taking small steps toward returning to life.
Sadness still weighed heavily on his eyes, but it was no longer a complete emptiness. He began to accept a spoonful of food, then two. He could already get out of bed without Ana having to insist too much.
He didn't talk much. Smiles were rare. But one late afternoon, as the sun painted the sky orange, he agreed to take a walk with his mother to the little square on the corner.
Ana, walking beside him in silence, glanced around the corner and saw something she hadn't seen in a long time: Luca breathing deeply, his eyes fixed on the sky.
—"See those clouds, Mom? They look like a ball…"
Ana smiled with tears in her eyes. It was just a sentence. But to her, it was a miracle.
He still wasn't the boy he used to be. Maybe he never would be completely back. But the shadow that covered him was no longer so dark.
And Ana, even with her heart broken, felt she could still rebuild the world for her son… one step at a time.
that same day in Italy in Rome
Beatrice was sitting on the couch in the couple's bedroom, holding the phone tightly against her ear, as if somehow that would make her daughter answer. The call had already ended, but she kept insisting.
— "Please, answer… my daughter… forgive me…" — she whispered, voice choked. — "I miss you so much… I'm so sorry…"
She slowly let go of the phone, letting it fall into her lap, and hid her face in her hands. Her tears fell silently, wetting her thin fingers and the soft fabric of her dress. The silence of the castle was broken only by her sobs.
— "How can I talk to our daughter now…" — she said with difficulty, staring into the void. — "She changed her number… Giovanni… it's like she erased us from her life."
Giovanni was standing by the window, looking out at the vast garden of the castle, the flowers Beatrice had planted, the fields stretching into the horizon. But he wasn't really seeing any of it. He was lost in thought. Thinking about mistakes, about lost time, and about the silence of their daughter.
His face was serious, as firm as ever, but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. There was sadness. There was regret.
Beatrice closed her eyes tightly, her face contorted with pain, hands trembling.
— "Nine years, Giovanni… nine years without hearing our daughter's voice…"
He still didn't move. He just whispered, without looking at his wife:
— "I miss her too… more than I can admit."
The sun was slowly setting, painting the sky in golden tones.
Finally, Giovanni turned. He walked slowly over to the couch where Beatrice was crying, sat down beside her, and in a low, emotional voice, said:
— "Beatrice… I need to tell you something I found out yesterday..."
Giovanni looked down at his hands, as if searching them for courage. His fingers briefly squeezed Beatrice's.
— "Yesterday, when I got Ana's new number…" — he paused, his voice cracking for a second — "a woman from the neighborhood answered. She thought I was someone she knew… and ended up telling me that yes, it was her number… but Ana wasn't home at the moment. She had gone out with her son. They said she'd only be back around nine."
Beatrice frowned, quickly wiping the tears from her face.
— "Telling you what, Giovanni?" — she asked, alarmed.
He took a deep breath. His eyes, for the first time in years, were on the verge of tears.
— "Beatrice… we have a grandson."
The silence that followed felt eternal. Beatrice's breath caught. She slowly pulled her hand away from his, bringing it to her mouth, as if trying to stifle a scream rising inside her.
— "A… grandson…?" — she whispered weakly, her eyes wide and wet.
Giovanni nodded, his gaze heavy.
— "Yes. A little boy… I don't know his name yet. But they said he's about eight years old."
Beatrice brought both hands to her face and began to cry uncontrollably this time. The tears flowed with a mix of pain and regret. She stumbled up from the couch, walked to the center of the room, looking around as if the castle, once so grand, now felt empty.
— "Eight years… Eight years, Giovanni!" — she cried out — "I missed my daughter's childhood… and now my grandson's too! I didn't see him born, I never held him… I don't even know what he looks like!"
Giovanni sat there, head bowed. The coldness in his expression had vanished. For the first time in a long while, his eyes silently let tears fall.
Beatrice dropped to her knees on the polished marble floor and murmured, voice broken:
— "Will I ever… ever get to see my daughter again? Or hold my grandson in my arms?"
The cries of the two of them, in that immense and luxurious room, echoed with the weight of years of distance, pride, longing, and pain. And there, for the first time, they knew: there was still time. But not for silence anymore.
in another part of the world Brazil
Claro! Aqui está a tradução completa para o inglês, mantendo o clima emocional e a inserção sutil do toque do telefone como gancho dramático:
---
Ana opened the front door with Lucas by her side, holding his small, warm hand. She was radiant, a genuine smile lighting up her tired face.
— "We're home, my love!" — she said, looking at Lucas with eyes full of hope. — "You were so brave during our shopping trip today. I'm really proud of you."
Lucas looked up at his mother, a new light in his eyes and a calm smile.
— "I liked it, mommy. It was nice being with you."
Suddenly, Lucas let go of her hand and ran across the room, a wide smile on his face and an energy that had long seemed distant.
Ana thought to herself, with a small ache in her chest: This path won't be easy, but I'll do everything I can to see that smile I've always loved. I know you may never get that sweet childhood back, because life taught you to be too strong, to hide your child's eyes from the world...
Then she smiled, her heart filling with renewed hope.
After putting away the groceries in the kitchen, Ana began to prepare Lucas's favorite lunch, filling the house with warm and familiar aromas.
— "Today I'm making your favorite dish, so we can celebrate your progress, okay?" — she said with a loving smile.
Lucas smiled back, feeling the warmth of his mother's love, and helped her place some ingredients on the counter.
After they had lunch together, Ana looked at Lucas and spoke in a gentle voice:
— "Sweetheart, how about taking a bath now? Then we'll lie down and rest together, alright?"
Lucas nodded with a confident smile and went off to the bathroom. Ana watched him with tenderness, happy for each little step her son was taking.
At that very moment, the landline phone in the living room began to ring.
Ana blinked, snapping back to reality, and turned her head toward the sound, her heart racing for no clear reason. She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and walked toward the phone, hesitating for a second before answering.
— "Hello?"
---
If you'd like, I can now continue this in English with the phone conversation — either in a suspenseful tone or an emotional one. Just let me know your preference.
in Italy
Beatriz sat on the bedroom sofa, the phone still clutched between her fingers as if her hope depended on it. Her eyes were fixed on the door, anxiously waiting for someone on the other end to answer the call.
Giovanni stood in front of her, watching her every movement with a heavy heart. The silence was almost unbearable, and the continuous ringing from the other side only made the anguish grow.
Beatriz whispered, barely audible:
— Please... answer, my daughter... forgive me... I'm so sorry...
She held the phone to her chest, eyes full of tears, as if trying with her heart to bridge the distance between them. Giovanni slowly approached and sat beside her, placing a hand firmly and gently on her shoulder.
— She will answer, Beatriz. One day... she will.
Beatriz rested her head on her husband's shoulder, still holding the phone, her tear-filled eyes gazing out the window.
The phone was about to stop ringing. Beatriz was already thinking of hanging up, her heart heavy with disappointment. She looked at the screen, hope beginning to give way to despair. But then, on the very last ring… a soft voice answered on the other end:
— Hello? Who is this?
Beatriz froze. Her eyes widened. She brought the phone back to her ear with trembling hands, her lips quivering.
On the other side, Ana repeated:
— Hello...? Who's speaking?
Beatriz couldn't speak. Her breath was uneven, as if the world had stopped. Giovanni, noticing his wife's reaction, knelt before her, staring intently into her eyes.
— Is it her...? — he whispered.
Beatriz only nodded slightly, tears silently streaming down her face. Then, with a choked voice, she finally managed to say:
— Ana... Ana, it's me... Mom...
On the other end, Ana was silent for a few seconds. The name, spoken with such tenderness and pain, struck her like a lightning bolt. She felt her stomach twist, her heart race, and an old ache rise in her throat.
She closed her eyes, gripping the phone tightly.
— Mom...? — she murmured, as if the sound of that word had been lost somewhere in her memory.
Beatriz sobbed quietly at the response.
— Ana... my daughter... — she said, voice trembling — I... I waited so long for this moment... forgive me... forgive your foolish mother...
Ana swallowed hard. Her body seemed torn between the urge to hang up and the need to listen. Memories rushed back like a storm — childhood, distance, pain, and also the stifled love that had never left.
— Why now...? — she asked softly, as if she already knew the answer but needed to hear it.
Beatriz placed a hand over her heart.
— Because I couldn't bear the silence anymore... because I love you... because I need you... even if only through this call.
Ana didn't answer. Her eyes welled up, and the muffled sound of her son laughing in the next room brought her back to the present.
She took a deep breath, trying to hold back tears.
— I don't know what to say... — she confessed, raw and honest.
— Then say nothing, just... stay with me a little while... even if in silence — Beatriz whispered.
end - part 2 will be released tomorrow introduction