She lifted her head.
Her eyes were swollen and red—proof of tears she hadn’t had time to hide. The moment her gaze landed on me, I saw rage, pain, and something very close to hatred burning in the dark of her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
The words were sharp enough to cut.
I swallowed hard, every muscle in my body tightening as I approached slowly.
“I had to come,” I said. “I had to see her. André told me what happened. I’m—” The apology tasted pathetic. “I’m sorry.”
Valentina stood—slow, controlled—and placed herself between me and our daughter like a shield.
“Sorry?” she repeated, voice flat with disbelief. “Is that all you have to say?” She pointed at the bed with a tremor of fury. “Do you understand what’s happening here, Enrico? Do you understand what your actions did to our daughter?”
The guilt that slammed into me nearly made my legs give out, but I couldn’t retreat.
Not this time.
“Valentina,” I said, forcing the words through the tightening in my chest, “I know I’m responsible. I know I’m guilty for all of this—for everything that’s happening.” My voice broke at the edges. “I came to own that. I came to try to fix what I destroyed.”
A bitter smile flickered across her face, grief shining behind it.
“You can’t fix this,” she said. “You can’t erase what you did.” Her voice hardened. “I will never forgive you for what you did to me.” Her eyes flashed, deadly. “But more than that—for what you did to our daughter.”
My throat closed.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Clara shifted on the bed and murmured weakly, her small voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
“Mommy?”
Valentina turned instantly, as if I didn’t exist, stroking Clara’s face with tenderness.
“I’m here, my love. Mommy’s here.”
I watched, devastated, knowing I was the reason that hospital room felt like a tomb.
I stood there, useless, not knowing what to do with the reality I had created.
“Mommy,” Clara asked, voice shaky and small, “is the mean man making you cry again?”
Valentina shook her head quickly.
“No, baby. No.” And then—she lied. “He isn’t a mean man.” She forced softness into her voice. “Remember what Mommy told you? He’s my friend.”
Clara’s body tensed.
“He is mean,” she insisted, tears leaking. She turned her face toward me with a child’s blunt, terrifying truth. “Go away, mean man. Go away! You won’t make my mommy cry!”
I opened my mouth—words ready, apologies ready, truth ready—
And nothing came.
What could I say?
What was left?
