The roar of the engines thundered in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage as if your heart were trying to match the rhythm. The sun beamed down over the Autodromo Enzo e Dino Ferrari, and Ferrari red lit up the paddock like fire. Your six-year-old son, his red cap tugged low and a slightly oversized Charles Leclerc shirt hanging off his small frame, couldn’t stop spinning around, wide-eyed and breathless with excitement.

Your husband held his tiny hand as the three of you walked past the chaos of team crews and camera crews. You could barely keep the tears at bay. This was the first time. The first time you brought him to a Formula 1 race together. After so many weekends watching F1TV on the couch, rewinding overtakes, debating strategy like a mini engineer… now he was here. In Imola. On Ferrari ground.

After Free Practice 1, his cheeks still flushed from the adrenaline, he tugged on your sleeve and looked up at both of you with the most serious expression he could muster.

“Mom, Dad… do you think I can start racing now?”

You exchanged a quick look with your husband—Did he just say that?

You knelt down to his level, your hand gently brushing his shoulder.

“Start racing?” you asked softly. “You want to be a driver?”

He nodded, eyes sparkling as if he could already see himself in a race suit, helmet tucked under his arm.

“I want to drive for Ferrari.”

Your husband crouched beside you, ruffling your son’s hair with a proud grin.

“Then we’ll start when we get back home. But first…” he glanced toward the paddock, where the last of the cars were being wheeled back into the garage, “we still have Monaco and Monza, don’t we?”