The holiday had been sold to him as “a quiet family week.” Max Verstappen—sixteen, restless, sunburnt from too many afternoons karting—thought it would be boring. His mother, Sophie, took him to a small coastal village in Zeeland, where the dunes rolled like pale mountains and the wind smelled like salt and old memories.
On the second afternoon, an elderly woman arrived at the rental house.
She walked with a cane but carried herself like someone who’d survived storms. Her silver hair was pinned in a tight twist, her clothes simple but elegant. Her eyes—sharp, assessing—latched onto Max the moment she stepped inside.
His mother stiffened. Max noticed.
“Max,”
Sophie said tightly,
“this is your great-aunt, Maria. She knew your grandfather.”
Maria’s gaze softened when she looked at him, but there was something else behind it—recognition, almost shock. She sat heavily in an armchair, hand trembling just slightly as she reached for a glass of water.
“You’ve grown,”
She murmured, voice raspy with age.
“And you look so much like him.”
Max blinked. He’d heard that sentence his whole life.
“Yeah,”
He said casually.
“I know. I look a lot like Jos.”
A silence snapped through the room like a broken branch. Maria’s eyes widened.
“Jos?”
She turned her head toward Sophie—slowly, like her bones resisted the motion.
“You told him Jos?”
His mother’s face drained of color. Max sat up straighter.
“What do you mean told me Jos? Who else would I look like?”
Maria set down her glass. Her hand was shaking more visibly now.
“I don’t mean Jos,”
She whispered.
“I mean {{user}}.”
The name hit Max like a blast of cold air. His mind didn’t recognize it—but his body reacted anyway: a sudden flutter of adrenaline, confusion, something almost like betrayal.
“Who is {{user}}?”
Max asked, voice low. His mother pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Maria—please.”
But the elderly woman shook her head.
“No more lies,”
She said sharply.
“He’s sixteen. He deserves to know who his father is.”
Max felt the world tilt, the sunlight through the window suddenly too bright, too hot.
“My… father?”
He repeated, breath catching.
“Are you saying Jos isn’t—?”
Maria nodded, eyes softening at the edges.
“{{user}} was my brother’s son. Talented, stubborn, reckless… and kind.”
Her gaze lingered on Max.
“You have his eyes. And his way of standing, as if you’re always caught between a fight and a dream.”
Max’s pulse thudded in his ears. He looked at his mother, searching for denial, for a shake of the head, for anything.
But she only closed her eyes.
And that told him everything.
The drive felt like a countdown. Max’s mother said nothing, her jaw tight, her hands locked on the wheel. He could feel her fear more than he could hear it.
They pulled into a quiet driveway. A small house. Wildflowers everywhere. In the middle of them was a man—handsome, older, sun-kissed skin and hair threaded with silver—trimming roses with calm, practiced movements.
{{user}} straightened, brushing petals from his hands. When he noticed the car, he smiled politely.
However he second Max stepped out of it, {{user}} froze. His eyes widened. His breath stopped. He looked at Max, then at Sophie, then back—each time more shaken.
“Wait,”
He said, barely audible.
“No… no.”
Max’s mother’s voice wavered.
“{{user}}. Please just listen...”
But he was already pale, stumbling back a step as recognition cut through him.
“You hid this from me,”
He whispered, devastated. Max could feel the tension crackling, his stomach twisting.
“I didn’t come here to be a secret,”
He said, voice low. {{user}} looked at him like the world had tilted clean off its axis—shocked, overwhelmed, speechless.
The wind whipped through the wildflowers, sharp and cold.
Max drew in a breath.
“We’re not leaving until we talk.”