"I betrayed him. I chose Zane. I chose the enemy."
"You chose love. That's not betrayal."
"Miguel doesn't see it that way."
"Let me call," Izzy says gently. "If he doesn't want to come, that's on him. But at least he'll know. At least you tried. And maybe—just maybe—having a nephew changes things."
I look down at Santiago. His dark hair, Zane's coloring but my father's nose. Cruz nose. The physical proof that I carry both worlds in my arms.
"Okay," I whisper, tears falling onto Santiago's head. "Call him."
Izzy steps into the hallway to make the call.
I can hear her voice through the door but not the words. Just tones—urgent, pleading, insistent.
The conversation goes on for fifteen minutes that feel like fifteen years.
I hold Santiago, count his breaths, and try not to hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt. Hope makes you believe in impossible things like brothers who come back after telling you you're dead to them.
Medical terminology runs through my head like a liturgy—Tachycardia (my racing heart), Hyperventilation (my shallow breaths), Acute anxiety response (everything).
I force myself to slow down. Breathe. Santiago needs me calm, not spiraling.
The door opens. Izzy's face tells me everything before she says a word.
"He's coming."
The breath leaves my lungs all at once. "What did he say?"
"Not much. I told him you had a baby. A boy. Seven pounds, two ounces. Named Santiago. After your dad." Izzy's own eyes are wet now. "He kept saying 'a baby?' like he couldn't process it. Then silence. Long silence. Then: 'I'm coming.' And he hung up."
"What if he gets here and changes his mind?" The words tumble out in a panic. "What if he sees Santiago and doesn't want anything to do with us? What if—"
"Then I'll kick his ass," Izzy interrupts. "But I don't think that's going to happen. I know your brother, mija. He's stubborn and protective and sometimes catastrophically stupid. But he loves you. He's always loved you."
"Love wasn't enough to keep him around."
"Maybe not then. But maybe now it is."
Forty-five minutes of torture.
I alternate between hope and dread, rehearsing what I'll say, trying to prepare for every possible reaction. Santiago sleeps peacefully through my emotional crisis, completely unaware that his existence might be the thing that stitches a family back together.
Or tears it apart permanently.
Every footstep in the hallway makes me jump. Every voice that's not Miguel's is a small disappointment followed by relief followed by more waiting.
Then—
A knock.
Soft. Tentative.
Not Miguel's usual confident rap that announces his presence like a challenge.
My heart stops. Actually stops. I'm a trauma nurse, I know hearts don't actually stop, but mine does. Just freezes in my chest like it's too scared to keep beating.
"Come in," I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
