Page 75 of Racing for Redemption
“Some.” I shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
I don’t mention Paul Bertrand. Don’t bring up the history between us, the crash in F2 that cost me the championship. No need to worry them. They saw the footage and heard me crying for hours, and that's enough. I don't want to stress them out, or awaken their "parent senses" causing them to find him in the paddock to give him an earful, like they used to do when I was bullied in school.
“Wait ‘til you see this,” Dad says suddenly, diving into his suitcase. He pulls out a package wrapped in tissue paper, his face lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “Ordered it the day they announced you.”
He unwraps a black and white polo shirt with the Colton Racing logo on the chest and—sure enough—FOSTER 64 printed across the back. My racing number.
“I’m wearing it in the paddock,” he announces proudly. “Everyone’s gonna know I’m William Foster’s dad.”
My chest fills with a peculiar mix of pride and embarrassment. “Dad, you don’t have to—”
“I absolutely have to,” he interrupts, holding the shirt against his chest. “My son is a Formula 1 driver. Been waiting half my life to say those words.”
Mom rummages in her own bag. “I made something, too.”Oh boy, please no.This is going to be embarrassing.
She pulls out a bundle of black fabric. As she unfolds it, I realize it’s a hand-knitted coat—the kind she used to make for me when I raced karts in the winter. On the back, she’s somehow incorporated my number, 64, in a shade of red.
“Mom,” I whisper, running my fingers over the stitches. Each one placed with care, with love.
“For when it gets cold in the paddock,” she says, though we both know Melbourne in March is hardly freezing. “I used the team colors from the website.”
I close my eyes briefly. My parents’ raw enthusiasm makes me feel both deeply loved, and slightly mortified. “Guys, this is… It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
Dad laughs. “Too much? This is your first Formula 1 race! There’s no such thing as too much.”
Mom pats my cheek. “We’re just proud, honey. So very proud.”
“I know,” I say, pulling them both into another hug. “I know.”
For a moment, we’re just us again—the family unit that weathered financial hardships, early morning practice sessions, and the rollercoaster of junior formula success and heartbreak. Just us, happy. Our dream come true.
“Oh!” Mom pulls away. “I almost forgot!”
She digs deeper into her suitcase and produces a paper bag. Inside are two large, perfectly ripe mangos.
“From our tree,” she says, knowing this will get me.
“You didn’t!” I grin—like a child getting the Christmas gift they wished for—as I grab the bag. “These are so ripe, I'm surprised you don't have them running inside the bag. How did you manage this?”
She winks. “I have my ways.”
I’m already heading for the kitchen. “I need a knife. Right now.”
Dad laughs behind me. “Some things never change.”
In the kitchen, I find a paring knife and begin carefully peeling one of the mangos. The scent alone is transportive—summers at home, juice running down my chin, the sticky sweetness that those local market mangos always delivered.
“Careful now, Will,” Mom cautions, watching me slice. “We can’t have you cutting a finger before your big debut.”
“I’m being careful,” I promise, though my eagerness to taste it nearly makes me slip. I cut a slice, and pop it into my mouth. Theflavor explodes on my taste buds—sweet and tangy and perfect. “God, this is delicious!”
“Well, eat up,” Dad says. “Both of them.”
I shake my head, reluctantly setting down the knife. “Can’t. Weight check tomorrow. Every gram counts in F1—even half a kilo can affect the car’s performance. I don't want to have to hit the gym to lose those calories.”
Mom’s face falls slightly. “But they’re your favorite.”
“I’ll have this one now,” I compromise. “Save the other for after the race. Acelebration.”
