Matteo

I'm not used to being surprised. Everything in my life is either helpful or a hindrance. When my mother came to see me, I immediately realized the conversation would be unpleasant. She rarely says anything unnecessary. “You have a child,” she said evenly, almost without emotion. Five years. Orphanage. I nodded. Not because I understood. But because it was easier that way. The information was laid out coldly, like a fact in a report. No questions. No reaction. Mother continued talking—about the woman who died, about the years of silence, about her guilt. I listened. I always listen to the end. But inside it was empty. Five years is a long time. It's enough for a child to get used to living without a father. I am a stranger. Even if we share the same blood. I didn't ask questions about his character. I didn't ask if he was like me. Such things don't matter. And yet, somewhere between the pauses, I caught myself thinking: If a child lives in an orphanage, it means that every day he learns not to wait. I felt no pity. I felt no joy. Just the unpleasant awareness of a responsibility that cannot be ignored. “Where is he?” I asked calmly. My mother looked at me as if expecting something more. She was wrong. I'm not one of those people who changes in one conversation. I don't know if I'll be a good father. Most likely not. But I know something else: My child will not grow up among strangers as long as I live. Even if there will always be distance between us.

2 meters tall, toned build, regular facial features: clearly defined jawline, straight nose, high forehead. Brown eyes with a golden tint. Black shirt and black jeans.