When The Kingdom Comes by Matthew Hattersley

Author:Matthew Hattersley [Hattersley, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

30

Antonia’s sobs filled the room – they felt as if they filled the entire world – as Humberto held her in his arms, her head pressed against his chest. His beautiful little girl. His daughter. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. He didn’t want to ever let her go.

Despite the intense feelings of joy he was now experiencing, he’d felt uneasy on his approach to the house. If Raul was home, it would have been like walking into the lion’s den. Humberto had stood on the porch for what felt like forever, a pillar of silence in the darkness as he stared at the front door, willing Antonia to open it without him having to knock. When she didn’t, he’d reached out, crooked fingers hovering over the brass knocker, gripping it as if clutching onto hope itself. Old instincts screamed at him to melt back into the shadows, to run. But he remained where he was. He had to do this. He was not here as a timid drunken loser, but as a father, and as a soldier with a mission to complete.

So he’d knocked and he’d waited.

It had felt like another lifetime before the door finally creaked open and Antonia was standing there in front of him. She’d looked scared, then surprised, then she’d burst into tears, holding her arms out to him like when she was a little girl and had hurt herself.

And just like that, it was as if the past decade had never happened. Inside the house with the door closed they’d embraced more, a reunion that felt like a dream but was so much better than all the times Humberto had imagined it over the years. He hugged his daughter tight, breathing her in, the scent of her hair, her perfume. A heady mix of relief but also a painful reminder of what he’d lost.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered into his chest. “I’m so very sorry.”

“Oh my sweet girl, you have nothing to be sorry for.” He stepped back, cradling her face in his rough hands. Her dark hair was cut short into a stylish bob, framing her delicate features, so like her mother’s. But her large brown eyes were full of worry as she stared up at him, the skin around the right one yellow and bruised. He didn’t need to ask how it had happened. He knew. The sight of it reignited the fire within him, reminding him of why he was here.

His eyes swept around the hallway. He took in the gleaming, white marble floor, the stark white walls undecorated except for a large modernist painting – a single, bold red stroke against a sea of monochrome. It looked expensive, aggressive, devoid of compassion. Much like the man who had hung it there. Through the open door to his left was the front room. Here, too, the décor was sparse and minimalist; the layout geometric rather than homely. Every piece of furniture, every fixture, looked to be meticulously placed. An oversized

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