Page 38 of Racing for Redemption (Backmarker Love trilogy #1)

Home is where they are

William

I pace the length of the rented living room, checking the vintage watch on my wrist—a gift from my grandpa—for the fourth time in two minutes.

The car should’ve been here by now. My stomach knots with anticipation—it’s been a year since I’ve seen them.

A whole year of video calls and voice messages that never quite fill the gap that their absence leaves.

A whole year of "I love you" and "I miss you" that feel like they're missing something. The warmth, smell, and familiarity that make me feel at home. The window offers a view of the suburban Melbourne street, lined with eucalyptus trees swaying in the autumn breeze. Then, I spot it—a white sedan turning the corner. My heart hammers against my ribs like I’m taking Eau Rouge at full throttle.

“They’re here,” I whisper to nobody.

I’m out the door before the car fully stops, standing on the short concrete path that bisects the postage-stamp front lawn. The rear door opens, and my mother emerges first—her face breaking into the smile that’s carried me through twenty-four years of life.

“William!” she cries, and I’m already moving.

I wrap her small frame in my arms, lifting her slightly off the ground. She smells the same—that peculiar mixture of home-baked bread, and the jasmine perfume she’s worn since I was a kid. Her salt-and-pepper hair looks absolutely adorable.

“My boy, my beautiful boy,” she says into my shoulder.

My father is next, extracting himself more slowly from the cab.

Years working multiple jobs did a number on his back, and as he gets older, he moves slower and slower.

His eyes are already glistening when I release Mom and turn to him.

He’s aged a bit—more gray at his temples, lines a bit deeper around his eyes—but his hug is as solid and comforting as ever.

“Look at you,” he says, holding me at arm’s length. “Our boy is a Formula 1 driver now.”

My throat tightens. “Yeah, Dad. All thanks to you guys.”

The swell of emotion catches me off guard—a rush of gratitude and love that threatens to spill over. These two sacrificed everything for me. Sold their retirement fund. Worked three jobs between them. Drove me to every kart race across the country. And now, here we are.

“Let’s get your bags inside,” I say, clearing my throat.

“The house is nice—nothing fancy, but the team helped me find something close to the track for you to stay during the weekend.” Actually, as soon as Violet and Blake heard I was trying to get my parents to the race weekend, they both offered to help.

Violet paid for their stay from her own pocket, or so Blake later whispered to me. I owe her now. Big time.

I grab their suitcases while Dad pays the driver. The rental is modest—two bedrooms, a small kitchen/dining area, and a living room with worn but comfortable furniture. Nothing like the luxury accommodations the top drivers get, but it’s clean and cozy.

“Where are you staying?” Mom asks, already examining the kitchen with a critical eye.

“Hotel downtown with the rest of the team. Colton Racing has a block of rooms.” I set their suitcases down in the master bedroom. “It’s all part of the package.”

Dad whistles. “Formula 1. Still can’t quite believe it.”

“That makes two of us.” I smile, though it’s partially true. Sometimes, I wake up convinced it’s all been a dream—that I’m still in Formula 2, watching my chances drift away season after season.

“How is it?” Mom asks, her voice soft. “The team, I mean. We’ve read some… Well, some concerning things. A lot of people make fun of them.”

I lean against the door frame. “It’s better than the press makes it sound. Colton Racing has struggled, yeah, but Violet—Ms. Colton—is turning things around.”

“Violet?” Dad raises an eyebrow. “First-name basis with the boss already?”

I ignore the implication, the back of my neck getting increasingly warmer. “This year’s car is better than last year’s. Pre-season testing went well. I’m not saying we’ll challenge for wins, but points aren’t out of the question.”

“And London?” Mom asks, unpacking with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s lived out of suitcases for their son’s career. “Have you made friends? Is the farmhouse working out for you?”

“London’s London—rain and terrible food.” I grin. “The farmhouse is good. Outside the city center. Isolated, cozy, just mine. I’m at the simulator most days anyway, so I only go home to take a shower and sleep.”

Dad sits on the edge of the bed. “And the other drivers? They giving you a hard time, being the new kid in the paddock?”

“Some.” I shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

I don’t mention Paul Bertrand. Don’t bring up the history between us, the crash in F2 that cost me the championship.

No need to worry them. They saw the footage and heard me crying for hours, and that's enough.

I don't want to stress them out, or awaken their "parent senses" causing them to find him in the paddock to give him an earful, like they used to do when I was bullied in school.

“Wait ‘til you see this,” Dad says suddenly, diving into his suitcase. He pulls out a package wrapped in tissue paper, his face lighting up like a kid at Christmas. “Ordered it the day they announced you. ”

He unwraps a black and white polo shirt with the Colton Racing logo on the chest and—sure enough—FOSTER 64 printed across the back. My racing number.

“I’m wearing it in the paddock,” he announces proudly. “Everyone’s gonna know I’m William Foster’s dad.”

My chest fills with a peculiar mix of pride and embarrassment. “Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I absolutely have to,” he interrupts, holding the shirt against his chest. “My son is a Formula 1 driver. Been waiting half my life to say those words.”

Mom rummages in her own bag. “I made something, too.” Oh boy, please no. This is going to be embarrassing.

She pulls out a bundle of black fabric. As she unfolds it, I realize it’s a hand-knitted coat—the kind she used to make for me when I raced karts in the winter. On the back, she’s somehow incorporated my number, 64, in a shade of red.

“Mom,” I whisper, running my fingers over the stitches. Each one placed with care, with love.

“For when it gets cold in the paddock,” she says, though we both know Melbourne in March is hardly freezing. “I used the team colors from the website.”

I close my eyes briefly. My parents’ raw enthusiasm makes me feel both deeply loved, and slightly mortified. “Guys, this is… It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

Dad laughs. “Too much? This is your first Formula 1 race! There’s no such thing as too much. ”

Mom pats my cheek. “We’re just proud, honey. So very proud.”

“I know,” I say, pulling them both into another hug. “I know.”

For a moment, we’re just us again—the family unit that weathered financial hardships, early morning practice sessions, and the rollercoaster of junior formula success and heartbreak. Just us, happy. Our dream come true.

“Oh!” Mom pulls away. “I almost forgot!”

She digs deeper into her suitcase and produces a paper bag. Inside are two large, perfectly ripe mangos.

“From our tree,” she says, knowing this will get me.

“You didn’t!” I grin—like a child getting the Christmas gift they wished for—as I grab the bag. “These are so ripe, I'm surprised you don't have them running inside the bag. How did you manage this?”

She winks. “I have my ways.”

I’m already heading for the kitchen. “I need a knife. Right now.”

Dad laughs behind me. “Some things never change.”

In the kitchen, I find a paring knife and begin carefully peeling one of the mangos. The scent alone is transportive—summers at home, juice running down my chin, the sticky sweetness that those local market mangos always delivered.

“Careful now, Will,” Mom cautions, watching me slice. “We can’t have you cutting a finger before your big debut.”

“I’m being careful,” I promise, though my eagerness to taste it nearly makes me slip. I cut a slice, and pop it into my mouth. The flavor explodes on my taste buds—sweet and tangy and perfect. “God, this is delicious!”

“Well, eat up,” Dad says. “Both of them.”

I shake my head, reluctantly setting down the knife. “Can’t. Weight check tomorrow. Every gram counts in F1—even half a kilo can affect the car’s performance. I don't want to have to hit the gym to lose those calories.”

Mom’s face falls slightly. “But they’re your favorite.”

“I’ll have this one now,” I compromise. “Save the other for after the race. A celebration.”

Or consolation, depending on how things go. But I don’t say that part out loud.

I finish the mango as we talk, catching up on neighborhood gossip and news from home. Time slips away, and I check my watch with a jolt.

“I need to get going,” I say. “Team dinner tonight—mandatory.”

I pull out the VIP passes and wristbands from my backpack. “These will get you into the paddock, and our hospitality area. You can watch from the garage if you want, or there’s a viewing platform.”

Dad takes them reverently, like I’ve handed him ancient artifacts. “We’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I hug them both one more time, holding on a beat longer than necessary. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Go show them what a Foster can do,” Dad says.

“We love you, Will,” Mom adds. “No matter what happens.”

I nod, throat tight again. “Love you, too.”

As I walk to my rental car, my steps are lighter somehow.

Seeing them after such a long time really eased all the stress I was feeling coming into this weekend.

No matter what happens this weekend—points, crash, or mechanical failure—I have them.

And for a kid who grew up with nothing but a dream, and parents crazy enough to believe in it, that’s more than enough.