If you asked the world, they’d say I have it all. Fast cars. Trophies. A career people dream of.

But the truth is, none of it ever felt like everything… until I almost lost something that wasn’t supposed to be mine in the first place.

I became a dad when I wasn’t ready. There was no warning. No slow build-up. Just a baby in my arms, and silence where his mother should’ve been.

She left. Quietly. Coldly. And I don’t talk about it — not to the media, not to friends, not even to most of my family. Only two people really stayed when everything fell apart: my parents… and her.

The girl who used to steal my fries during karting weekends. The girl who used to finish my sentences and punch my arm when I got too cocky. The one who knew me before all of this.

She showed up before I even asked. Held my son like he was her own. Didn’t flinch when I couldn’t stop crying. And when the logistics of life caught up with me — when schools, doctors, passports demanded stability — I looked at her and said the most selfish thing I’ve ever said in my life:

“Marry me.”

It wasn’t romantic. It was survival.

She said no, of course. She’s smarter than me. Stronger, too. But over time… I think she saw that this wasn’t about pretending. It was about giving my son a life. And so she said yes.

And now? We’ve been fake married for four years. She has full guardianship when I’m gone. She signs the school forms, bakes the birthday cakes, and makes my house feel like something more than a hotel room.

People think the boy is ours. We’ve never corrected them.

Maybe because… a part of me wants it to be true.

I got home tonight past 11. Post-GP fatigue clung to me like fog, my body sore from travel and adrenaline wearing off.

But the moment I opened the front door, I felt that familiar warmth. That hum of a house that isn’t just walls and furniture — it’s theirs. Ours.

I dropped my bag by the stairs and followed the flicker of light into the living room.

And there they were.

He was curled into her side, eyelids heavy but stubborn, clutching a toy Lightning McQueen in one hand. She sat there in a sweatshirt that probably used to be mine, hair tied up, her expression soft — the kind of softness that hits you when you’ve been gone too long.

“You’re home,” she said quietly.

“Didn’t want to miss movie night,” I replied, stepping in.

He perked up the moment he heard my voice. “Daddy!”

I barely had time to react before he launched himself at me. I caught him easily, his arms clinging to my neck like he never wanted to let go.

“Did you win?” he asked sleepily.

“Not this time,” I whispered. “But I came home to you, so… I still kinda did.”

He smiled, already half-asleep against my shoulder.

I walked over to the couch and sat down beside her. She adjusted the blanket over my legs like it was second nature. Like this — all of this — was just normal.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” I said softly.

“He insisted. And honestly… so did I.”

We sat there in silence as Cars played for the hundredth time. The same lines. The same scenes. But somehow it felt different with him asleep between us and her hand so close to mine.

I glanced over at her, watching how the light from the screen lit up her face. There was something in her eyes — something quiet, unsure.

“Can I say something?” I asked.

She nodded.

“I know we said this was temporary. Just for him. Just until it made sense to stop.”

“Yeah,” she murmured.

I swallowed. My voice came out lower than I expected.

“But if I’m being honest… I don’t want it to stop.”

She turned her head, our eyes locking. Not in shock. Not in fear. Just… stillness. Understanding.

“Lando…” she whispered, like my name was suddenly something fragile.

“I think,” I said, brushing my thumb over the back of her hand, “that this doesn’t feel fake anymore. Not to me. Not even a little.”

I waited. Let the silence wrap around us, thick and real.

Then I added, barely above a whisper:

“Maybe home was never a place. Maybe it’s just… wherever you two are.”