“Ciao, Mamma,” I say, addressing her as I would if she were alive.

My parents both migrated to the USA in their teens from a small fishing village in Sicily, Italy. When they were barely adults, they met at a factory and married a year later. Two years after that, I was born.

My parents didn’t have much when they came to America, but they made it work. They worked hard and blended in as best they could, as they didn’t speak a lick of English the day they arrived. If the current generation of kids had to rough it like my parents did, they wouldn’t survive half a day without their iPods and cell phones.

In a way, back then, things were simpler. You married young, had kids, and provided for your family the best you could. It was hard labor, but family was number one, so you did anything for your loved ones.

If it wasn’t for my father and mother working their asses off, then I wouldn’t be in the position I’m in today. I thank them every day for the sacrifices they made for me.

“I miss you,” I whisper, staring at her grave. “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. But you’re in my thoughts every day, and not a moment goes by that I don’t wish you were still here.” I hesitate before I sadly confess, “I’m sorry for what I did to Papà.” I hang my head in shame.

If my mother were alive, she would be disgusted by what I did to my father, and also how I’m living my life. She’d tell me to marry a nice girl and make her many grandbabies.

As I think about Juliet bearing my children, I realize I can’t even picture it as it’s too farfetched to even imagine.

“I’m lost,” I confess, running a hand through my hair. “I just wish I had more time with you.”

I hold onto my tears and sniff back my sorrow because life really is a bitch. When you’re younger, you don’t appreciate your parents and all that they’ve done for you. Loving your parents is seen as uncool, and all that matters is your friends, booze, and girls, girls, girls.

But the older you get, you realize that your parents are going to be there for you when your friends and girlfriends are long gone. Friendship comes and goes, but family is forever.

For today, this is enough. This is more than I expected I could handle.

“Sogni d’oro,” I say, wishing my mother sweet dreams. “I’ll see you soon. I promise,” and I stand, feeling like a tiny part of the old Dixon has returned.

Lost in thought while walking to my car, I think back to all the times Juliet and I have spent together that didn’t involve sex. Sadly, all those times can be counted on one hand.

In the words of Shakespeare, “love is merely a madness,” and that’s because in one corner, I have Juliet, who is a freak in the sack, but boring as batshit out of it. And in the other corner, I have Madison, who I bet would be as interesting in the sack as she is out of it, but who is now seeing someone else.

I knew one woman sexually, while I knew the other intellectually, and like a typical male, the pussy won out. Now look how that’s ended up.

Unlocking my car, I flip off the sky ’cause karma…can kiss my ass.

The drive back to Manhattan is long and boring, and to top things off, I’m stuck in traffic. Thanks to the wasted time spent in peak hour, I find my thoughts wandering to my father.

Marie said he’s better. I highly doubt that, but I decide to find out for myself. Going through my contacts, I find the number which taunts me every time I see it. Telling myself to grow a pair, I hit dial and wait for it to connect through my Bluetooth.

The moment it rings, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, a sense of dread overtaking me. This is the reason I don’t go visit him. This is the reason I don’t call. Talking to my father will highlight what a failure I am, and confirm that I’ve let both my parents down.

Just as I’m about to hang up, a friendly voice answers, asking where she can direct my call.

“May I be connected to Pino Di Matteo’s room, please?” I say, waiting a few seconds before speaking.

“Certainly. Putting you through now.”

I’m thankful I’m stationary because all I can focus on is the tacky music which separates me from my father. Will he really want to talk to me after all I’ve done to him?

“Hello?” a female voice says.

“Um, hello,” I reply, confused. “I must have the wrong room. I was looking for Pino Di Matteo.”

“Yes, this is his room. Hi, I’m Julia, Pino’s nurse. I’m looking after him today,” she says cheerfully.

“Oh, right. I’m Dixon…Pino’s son,” I explain, because she probably doesn’t even know he has a son.

There’s a slight pause before she replies. “Oh, what a lovely surprise. Hang on a second.” I hear her place down the receiver, her shoes squeaking against the linoleum as she walks across the room.

“Pino,” she says, my heart in my throat as she addresses him. “Pino, your son is on the phone. Would you like to talk to him?”

Silence.

“Pino?” she says, pressing once more.

I can’t help but smile, as my father always was a stubborn man. Looks like some things never change.

“Hello?” she says into the receiver. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I reply, although I know this has all been a mistake.

‘I’m going to put you on loudspeaker, okay? That’ll make things a little easier,” she kindly explains, but I know my dad doesn’t want to talk to me. “Okay, you’re good to go. I’ll give you some privacy,” she says, and I hear the door shut.

There is complete silence, apart from my father’s raspy breaths, waiting for me to speak.

“Ciao, Papà. Come stai?” I ask, which is a stupid question, seeing as he’s cooped up in a hospital.

But I persevere. “Mi dispiace per non visitare. Lavoro èstato occupato,” I say, using the same excuse I gave to Marie for not visiting.

I know he’s listening because his breathing has increased. I decide to switch to English, hoping I’ll get a response out of him.

“Have you been doing any gardening? I remember seeing a beautiful garden out back.”

I’m still greeted with silence.

I know my father and he’s not interested in my work or gardening; he wants answers. He wants me to say I’m sorry for abandoning him when he needed me the most. He wants me to explain why I left him.

Clenching the steering wheel, I take a deep breath and say what’s been on my mind since the day I left him there. “I’m sorry, Papà. I really am. I…I didn’t know what else to do. When we lost Mamma, I think she took a piece of us with her. You especially. I know I did you wrong, but I’m asking you to forgive me.”

Why won’t he talk to me? I can hear him, and I know he can hear me, too. Suddenly, I hear his slippers scuff across the floor. His steps are small and measured, and I can’t help but think they’re the footsteps of a broken man.

“Papà?” I beseech, sitting up straighter in my seat.

It’s a plea, a plea for him to talk to me.

His breathing rattles in his chest, his exhalations coming out louder and choppier. The sound has me choking up, and I say the only thing I can that really expresses how I feel.

“Ti amo.”

My words of love are greeted with silence, but this time, the silence is because my father has hung up on me.

Closing my eyes in defeat, I numbly end the call and rest my head on the steering wheel. I don’t know what I expected, because if I were him, I would have done the same.

Only when a car horn blares behind me do I raise my head to see that traffic has finally started moving. I put my car into gear and take off, speeding away from demons I must one day face.

That day, however, is not today. And I don’t see it happening anytime soon.

I’ve invited Finch and Hunter over for pizza and beer, as basketball is on, and I couldn’t think of a better way to distract myself from my non-relationship woes. A knock on the door interrupts me from stocking the fridge with beer. I look at my watch and see the boys are early, which is a first.