Paternal Prayers

[POV SWITCH]

Some nights, I watch him sleep, tucked under wool, breathing softly, lost in whatever dreams babies have. He smells like milk and dust.

I call him "figlio mio" even though I know he won't remember it. 

But I say it anyway. Not because he needs to hear it. Because I need to say it.

My father never said it, not once, not in Italian, not in silence. He taught with work, with hands, not with words. I understand that, and I respect it. 

But I swore that when I became a father, I'd speak the love I was never told.

I came to England as a young boy. I didn't speak much English. Learned on the docks, in the warehouses, and sweeping floors daily. 

I met Mary on a windy afternoon near the Thames. She laughed at my accent and said I pronounced "bread" like "bride." She married me anyway.

Now, I work at the local Metal sheet factory, operating machinery, feeding iron, and thinning metal. My hands are tired, but my heart works harder now than it ever did in the factory.

And then Richard came.

And everything else — the world, the cold, the aching shoulders — shrank.

He looked at me once, barely weeks old, and something in me shifted like stone giving way to light. 

I understood something I never had: it doesn't matter what language you speak. Love is fluent in the eyes.

He laughs when I sing badly, Off-key, clumsy Italian lullabies. Ones that my mother sang to me just years ago. 

But that laugh? That laugh heals.

Mary and I talk more now. It's not just about meals and nappies but about the future. About what we want him to see and what we want him to be spared from.

My mamma says he has "luce nelle mani," light in his hands. I believe her. She sees things others don't. She's been praying in Latin again. I don't ask why. I just listen.

Papà doesn't speak much, but when he holds Richard, he moves like a craftsman laying a final stone. 

Every move is exact. Every silence is meaningful. He built the world I was raised in with his hands. Now, those same hands rock my son to sleep.

Richard is not just my child.

He is the first brick in something better—a foundation.

And I will build on it with everything I have.

[POV SWITCH]

I prayed for a child to hold again.

I did not expect God to answer so soon or so gently.

When Richard came into my arms, something old in me stirred. A warmth I hadn't felt since Enzo was small. Before ships, war and the cold of England seeped into our bones.

He is not loud, not in spirit. He watches. Feels. Absorbs. I call him tesoro, bambino, luce della mia vita. Treasure. Child. Light of my life. I whisper these things against his cheek like charms.

Leonardo says I spoil him.

Maybe I do.

But I lived through famine. Through fascism. Through hunger and silence and the dread of footsteps outside your door. If a child smiles in my arms, I will give that child the sun, the moon, and every thread of wool I can knit.

He reminds me of Enzo. Before the strain, before the grind of immigrant years wore down his softness. Richard has that same solemn soul that tries to protect others by being still.

Mary watches him like he's made of blown glass. Delicate. Too good. She's learning how to hold him without flinching.

A pair of steady hands and heart. I'm so proud of her.

I've begun teaching him little prayers. Nothing strict. Just the rhythm. Just the memory.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.

He giggles before I finish.

Even God would smile at that.

He doesn't know what the words mean but feels their shape. I believe that. Prayer doesn't have to be understood to be heard.

Sometimes, I light a candle for my parents. I whisper his name in between theirs. 

Not because I think he's in danger, but because I want their protection wrapped around him.

He is more than a grandson. He is the answer to a question I didn't know I was still asking.

[POV SWITCH]

The boy watches everything.

Quiet. Like me.

He doesn't flinch when people shout. That's rare. Most babies learn fear first. 

Doesn't fuss without cause. He just sees. Follows the shape of a hand, the twitch of a brow. That's good. 

That's good. Words are soft. But hands tell the truth.

I fought in the last war. The real one. Not just in uniform, but in the mud, in the blood. Came back with lungs that whistle when it rains and knees that crack when I climb stairs.

I never wanted to talk about it. So I didn't.

Not to Isabella. Not to Enzo. Not even to myself.

They call it pride. It could be. Or maybe silence is just the last wall we build when there's nothing left to protect.

I've seen too much death for this lifetime; I've seen men and boys laughing, having a fag, and then giving them not a second to react. Bullets hailed into them, tearing them apart.

Then, this boy came along.

And when I hold him — when his little hand wraps around my thumb like it's all he needs—something breaks in me. Not painfully. Just... open.

I made him a toy horse last week. From scrap pine. Simple. Solid.

He held it like I'd carved it from gold.

Isabella cried and said it was holy. 

Enzo just nodded, but I saw his eyes.

Dorothy didn't speak, but her hand lingered at her chest longer than she meant. 

That's what the boy does. He pulls the quiet out of people.

Enzo has done well—better than I thought he would be. He doesn't walk around like he knows everything. He listens, he works, and he doesn't ask for praise.

I respect that.

And Richard?

He doesn't talk. Not yet. But when he's in my arms, he rests his head against my shoulder and breathes like he trusts me.

Like he knows I'd carry him through fire.

And I would.

Because I've built homes with my hands, I've patched walls, laid foundations, and framed futures in brick and mortar.

But this? This boy?

He is not just the future. He is the proof that something good can grow in soil once scorched.