My Formula 1 System

Chapter 694 694: Milk & Sugar Makes Isabella Schafer

Dulwich.Like many districts in London, Dulwich had a way of looking gentler in the afternoon, contrasting its moody mornings.

The community had conservative streets, an area lined and surrounded by trees and vegetation that had more seniority than the people, and the air was ideally damp, keeping the flowers blooming and their colors vibrant.

There had been a small commotion earlier in the week, when a local baker's delivery van had rolled into a prize-winning hedge on the court lane, and the neighbors were still talking about it as if it were a national scandal.

Also, a burst pipe had flooded two houses at the bottom of a hill, forcing the people to drain the water crudely before the intervention of the community Council. By then, the water had already been pushed back successfully, leaving behind scars of mud in the grass.

Mr. Schafer's house sat a little apart from the rest. It had a small front garden with a low brick wall, roses stubbornly climbing one side, and a neat path that bent gently to the door. The porch light had a soft yellow tint even in daylight, a birdbath near the hedge glittered, and the bricked premises were scattered with fallen leaves.

On the premises, the sound of whirring wheels echoed through the serene surroundings.

"Hahaha! Faster, Isabella! I think I can take the corner better than that," Mr. Schafer called out, his voice rich with excitement.

Isabella was behind the wheelchair, her hands gripped firmly on the rubber handles.

"You're a terrible backseat driver, Dad," she laughed, leaning into the chair to give it a sudden burst of speed.

She wasn't pushing him because he couldn't walk—he'd actually done quite a bit of trekking around the neighborhood that morning, boasting about his stamina— but Isabella had been insistent. His back had started to twinge by lunchtime, and she wasn't about to let him push it.

She wheeled him across the patio and down the gentle wooden ramp a nice neighbour helped install. They spun toward a patch of the lawn where a group of fat, bold pigeons was squabbling over a handful of bread crumbles she'd tossed out earlier.

As the chair approached, the birds erupted in a frantic, fluttering cloud of grey and white.

"Direct hit!" Mr. Schafer cheered, waving a hand at the retreating birds.

Isabella pivoted the chair toward the flower beds, pausing so he could inspect the hydrangeas.

They spent a good twenty minutes like that, weaving through the garden paths.

She'd wheel him toward a particularly vibrant cluster of marigolds, then spin him around to face the old oak tree where a squirrel was currently doing gymnastics.

It was a simple, goofy game, full of lighthearted bickering and the kind of easy silence that only exists between people who don't need to perform for each other.

The noise and the drama of the world hadn't existed here for weeks now.

After a while Isabella took him back inside the house, saying, "Alright, speed racer, let's get you inside before you freeze," Isabella said.

She wheeled him back through the and into the warmth of the living room, the house smelling like wood and beeswax.

With Isabella's help, Mr. Schafer sat on his favorite chair, exhaling deeply, but he frowned when he saw her dusting her hands as if he was some big task she was done taking care of.

"Show-off," Mr. Schafer muttered, drawing a laugh from Isabella as she headed to the kitchen.

"I'll put the kettle on!"

"Milk?"

"Yes,"

"Sugar?"

"Just one."

In the kitchen, Isabella shook her head with a smile he could not see. Of course it was one. Always one. He acted as if any more than that would be a sign of weakness.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray. She'd made a pot of Earl Grey and brought out some of the shortbread biscuits he liked. As she poured the tea, they chatted about the mundane things since life for them now was nothing more than enjoying smaller stakes things.

Mr. Schafer took a long, contented sip of his tea, then looked up at her with a glint in his eye.

"You know, the Mexico highlights should be on the sports channel by now. We missed the live broadcast with the time zones, but I'm sure we can keep up."

Isabella's hand paused over the sugar bowl. The name of the race felt like a cold draft in the room. She'd been doing her own version of avoiding the news, but for very different reasons. She didn't want to see the podiums. She didn't want to hear the names. Most of all, she didn't want to see the face of the man who was currently the center of that world.

She made a face before she could stop herself. "Must we?"

Mr. Schafer gave her a patient look that fathers reserve for daughters they know too well. "It's over already. Just the highlights."

"That's still too much."

He smiled into his cup. "You make it sound like an insult."

"It is an insult."

He shook his head, pretending to be wounded. "You don't even know how it ended."

"I know enough."

He waited a beat, then said, "Victor and Luca did well."

She looked away just a little too fast. "I said I know enough."

That was the danger of his timing. Mr. Schafer knew exactly where to place a name and watch the room change around it. He watched his daughter carry the tea tray back to the side table with more care than necessary.

"Come sit with me," he said. "We'll watch it together."

"I'm not really in the mood."

"The race won't bite."

"Neither will you, apparently."

Mr. Schafer laughed out loud, clapping his hands in amusement. "It's Mexico!" He exclaimed. "The atmosphere is always incredible. Come on, Isabella, just for a bit? It'll make your old man happy."

Isabella looked at his hopeful expression and felt the resolve crumble. She couldn't say no to him, not when he was looking so genuinely excited. .

With a reluctant sigh, she reached over and clicked the TV on, flipping the channel until the familiar, high-pitched scream of F1 engines filled the quiet living room.

The highlights were just starting. The screen showed the vibrant colors of the Autódromo, the sea of fans, and then, the red nose of a Trampos car.

Isabella felt a sudden, sharp tightness in her chest.

"Here we go! Look at that crowd," Mr. Schafer said, leaning forward. "Sit down, Isabella. Watch this with me."

"You enjoy yourself," she replied. "I have things to do in my room."

Mr. Schafer looked disappointed, but he nodded understandingly.

Isabella practically fled the room. She climbed the stairs with a hurried, heavy step, not stopping until she was inside her bedroom with the door firmly shut behind her.

In the room, the curtains were half drawn, letting in a stripe of late afternoon light that lay across the carpet and the corner of her bed. Her desk stood beside the window, papers stacked unevenly on one side, and her laptop standing erect, its screen surprisingly still awake.

The most prominent thing about the room was its scent.

It smelled faintly of citrus, a specific face cream, and the scent of a mother.

Isabella walked across, sat on the edge of the bed, her back against the cool wall, and pulled her knees up to her chest. She rested her chin on her knees, staring at the floor as a wave of exhaustion, heavier and deeper than usual, washed over her.

She wondered if the one-month pregnancy was finally starting to get to her head as every single thing made her think about the life of motherhood that awaited.

She reached for a textbook. School had resumed weeks ago, and she was technically supposed to be in lectures, yet here she was, hiding in Dulwich, unable to face the reality of her life.

She opened the book to a random page, but the words were just black ink on a white page. They didn't mean anything.

She wondered, not for the first time, whether the feeling in her chest was nerves, fatigue, or something else beginning to lean on her from the inside.

That thought made her lay the book aside.

Unfurling her legs, she let her head fall and sink into the pillow, the room quiet around her except for the faint murmur of the television downstairs and the distant clink of her father's cup against the saucer.

The scent of the room seemed to grow stronger, wrapping around her like a blanket, and slowly, her eyelids fell.