And when it was gone, I could suddenly climb.

That is what I mean by cleared airspace.

Not that his cruelty was secretly a gift, but that his absence removed an obstruction I had not known was there, and that the sky above my son and me, once he was out of it, turned out to be wide open, and entirely ours to fly.

Everything we have — this airfield, this Cessna, this academy with our name on it, this confident boy in a flight jacket — exists because Luca left, and I refused to let his leaving define us, and built a sky of our own instead.

I walked into the hangar and took my flight headset off its hook and stepped up beside my son.

“Oil level is four quarts, clear and clean,” he reported, holding up the dipstick, proud.

“Weight and balance calculated?” “Checked and double-checked.” “Then let’s fly, buddy.” We climbed into the cabin, buckled our harnesses, closed the doors, and as the engine turned over smooth and steady we taxied out toward the runway together, my son and I, leaving the shadows of the past far below us on the ground, where they belonged, and where, from now on, they would always stay.