When 3 turns into 4

Four and a half years ago
Elenora Russo, age 26

It's strange how quickly a warm home can turn cold.

One second, my father was at the kitchen table reading emails. The next, his voice echoed through the walls like a gunshot.
"You're what?"

Pregnant. I'd only just said it out loud for the first time myself. I'd barely whispered it when everything around me began to splinter.

He stood, slow and stiff, like the words had knocked the air from his lungs.
"You're 20. You're meant to be focused. You're playing for Italy. You're—"

"I know, Papa."

The words came out sharper than I meant. My stomach turned. I was nauseous most mornings anyway, but this was different — this was guilt and adrenaline. This was fear.

My mother didn't speak. She stood behind the counter, a dish towel clenched in her hands. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, like if she moved them at all, she might scream.

"And the father?" my dad asked.

"I don't know," I whispered.

He looked at me like I'd shattered every mirror in the house.

"I swear to God, Elenora, if this is some drunken mistake—"

"It was. Okay? It was a mistake. But it's still happening."

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

He didn't even look at me when he said, "Get out."

"Papa—"

"If you want to raise that child, do it on your own. Not under my roof. Not with our name."

I turned to my mother, but she wouldn't even meet my eyes.

I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I went upstairs, packed one bag — barely anything, really — and left the ultrasound photo tucked inside the zipped front pocket.

When I walked down the stairs for the last time, no one stopped me. No one followed.

I shut the door behind me and stood in the cold. It was nearly midnight in Florence. My hands were shaking. My whole body was.

I didn't know where else to go.

So I called Alessia.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Lenny?"

My voice cracked. "Less... I messed up."

"No, you didn't," she said, instantly. "You're okay. Just tell me where you are."

——

Three weeks later, I was living on her sofa in Manchester, throwing up every morning, too scared to look at baby clothes, too tired to explain what had happened.

And Less — she didn't even hesitate. She made me soup, booked my doctor's appointments, and told the girls I was her cousin from Italy, just visiting for a while.

Six months later, Lucia and Elijah screamed into the world within two minutes of each other.

I remember holding them both in my arms and whispering, "I'm sorry you don't have a father. But you'll always have me."

And for a while, it was enough.

But Less had her own career. England, transfers, tournaments. I couldn't live in her shadow forever. I had to make a life — not just survive in hers.

So when Barcelona called, I said yes. Packed the twins. Started again.

I told myself I'd never go back. Never see our parents again. Never lean on Alessia the way I used to.

And I didn't.
Not for 5 years

Until Renee Slegers called me two weeks ago.

Arsenal wanted a left-footed striker. Someone versatile. Experienced. Hungry.

"Would you consider London?" she asked. "We'd make it work with the twins. We've done it before."

I nearly said no. Nearly hung up.

But now... I'm standing outside Arsenal's training center. My son is trying to chase a pigeon. My daughter's asking if she can eat a second croissant. My heart is in my throat.

Tomorrow is Alessia's birthday.

And she has no idea I'm about to walk back into her life.