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He soon emerged, grinning.

‘That was bussin’!’

My lips quirked as he scrambled back out for another try.

With a sigh of contentment, I took in the view of the ocean, the sun, and the distant dots of surfers out on the waves.

This was my kind of heaven.

For the first time in days, I kicked back and relaxed, shutting out any thoughts of Ana and Nashami to focus solely on my son.

Raff and I were taking our bond to a whole new level.

As we surfed, paraglided, and hung out together, I realized the kid was maturing.

His opinions and takes on the world ranged from thought-provoking to hilarious, making him an amusing companion, to say the least.

While he and I talked as often as possible on tour, via FaceTime and texts, time in person was precious.

The holiday so far has been what we needed: a seaside summer break with stunning views, good, clean food, and long hours focused on being a dad.

We spent our early mornings bodyboarding, surfing, and running along the shoreline so Raff could burn off his energy.

Brunch hours and afternoons were dedicated to swimming, gaming, reading, or slumping in front of the TV while I worked on my music.

I kept my saxophone practice silent, dampening the brass bell with a thick foam mute inside the villa so I wouldn’t bother Christine and the kid.

My notebook was filling up with new chord progressions and five fresh tracks.

I was mapping out a song in my head when Raff’s head popped out of the pool, green goggles pushed up on his forehead.

‘Dad! Watch this!’

He launched into a chaotic cannonball, sending a sheet of water across my bare feet.

‘Solid seven, shorty,’ I quipped as he pulled up. ‘You’ll soon be a diving champ. Are you going in again?’

He shook his head and slumped into a lounger.

‘Need to warm up before I dip again, bro.’

I knifed up to toss a dry towel at his face. ‘Not your bro, I’m your father, and lunch is in 20.’

Laughing at his muttered grumbling, I sauntered inside the house with the intent to raid the fridge for a refreshing lemonade.

Just then, my phone buzzed on the dining table.

The caller ID showed my mother’s name.

I swiped the screen, a lopsided smile on my face.

‘Hey, Ma.’

‘Sema, mwanangu.’

Yumi’s voice came through the speaker, husky and warm.

‘Days without a call or text? You think you can forget the woman who carried you for nine months just because you’re in a fancy palace in Spain? Wewe ni mkaidi sana. You’re monstering me.’