Page 40 of The Prince's Green Card Scheme

Paolo parks the car in what I assume is the central lot, even though there are maybe three spots vaguely marked out. We get out of the car, and he smiles. “This is pretty typical for a Bellamare village. It’s not the smallest by any means — they have a grocery store, a post office, and a gas station. In some villages you have to travel for miles to get any of those things.”

“This is where he grew up,” I whisper, breathing in the air deeply like it might have a trace of him somewhere.

“It is. It was probably smaller in the seventies, but a town like this never changes too much. There are probably people here who still know his name.”

The thought of that is unimaginable. I’ve lived in New York City all my life. I barely even know what my neighbors look like, even less their names or anything about them as people. There’s a pleasant anonymity in the city. It’s worlds away from this.

“Do you want to see the house he grew up in?” Paolo asks.

My stomach lurches. “Okay,” I say quietly. “Do any of his family still live here?”

Paolo shakes his head sadly. “No, I couldn’t find much information on them. I’m sorry. I think his parents have passed, and any siblings he had have moved away to bigger cities.”

“I know he has a brother,” I say, “My mom and contacted him a couple of times. But Dad’s side of the family never were that interested in us.”

“That’s a shame,” says Paolo. “Your family mean a lot to you.”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “They do.”

“Come on, then,” he says, holding out his hand to me. “It’s not far.”

I take his hand and squeeze it gratefully. My personal feelings don’t matter right now. Seeing the place my father grew up in is something I need the support for.

We don’t say much as we walk through the village. Occasionally, Paolo points out something of historical or architectural interest, and I just nod in response, absorbing everything.

I’m trying to imagine my father here. I’m trying to think about him as a child, him seeing all these buildings every day; him living his life here the same as anyone would live their life anywhere.

Flashes of memory come back to me, of him taking me to the park when I was young, of him buying me ice cream. Times he swept me up in his arms, spun us around in circles and told me that he loved me.

Every time I’ve ever imagined doing something like this, coming to Bellamare and seeing the place where my father lived, I’ve always imagined it as a sad occasion. I’ve always thought it would be something that would cause me to break down in tears.Something that would squeeze my heart until it burst. I always thought it would make me grieve for a father I never had, until I couldn’t breathe.

And in a way, it is. It is making me ache for all the things he never saw me do. For all the milestones he missed.

But more than anything, I feel a great sense of joy. It makes no sense. It’s the last thing I would have expected.

Seeing these rickety old houses, the mountains in the background, the people going about their day-to-day lives… it makes me want to cry a little. But not with sorrow or grief. I want to shed tears of relief.

This is who my father was. This is where he lived, what he loved. This is where he went to school. This is who he was before me.

All this time, the memory of him has been secret to me, like something I didn’t dare touch in the fear that it would hurt. That, or, if I reached out to it, I’d spoil it somehow. Like he was something I had to think of as distant and untouchable.

But now that I’m here, I just want to celebrate. I want to think about that wonderful man whom I was so lucky to know.

It’s like a part of me that has been broken all this time is finally whole.

In my head, I send up a little thank-you to him for leading me here. Things with Paolo might be complicated and they might not make any sense, but thanks to him, I’ve come to the place I’ve always wanted to be.

Thanks to my dad, I was led here. It must have been for a reason.

I guess I have a lot to be grateful for.

“Here we are,” says Paolo, pulling me down what looks to be an ordinary street.

A couple of young women wander past us. They catch a glimpse of Paolo and bow their heads deeply. One of them whispers something to the other and they both break down in giggles. They say something to him in Bellamari then walk quickly away after bowing again.

“What was that about?” I ask.

Paolo just shrugs. “It’s no big deal. I’m the prince; they recognized me. People think they have to be nice to me because of my title. It’s stupid, really.”

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