He wasn't her father. Her father had died when she was nineteen, two years after her mother. But Angelo had been married to her mother for six years before that, and he was Aria's father, and he'd never once treated Serafina like something left over from a previous life. She was family. That was enough for him.
She thought of him like an uncle. Something without a clean name.
He released her and studied her face. Didn't ask if she was okay. He could see she wasn't.
"How is she?"
"Stable. Intubated. They're operating this afternoon—Dr. Rao moved up the surgery."
He nodded slowly. "Can I see her?"
"She's in ICU. They'll let you look through the window."
"Then that's what I'll do."
But he didn't move yet. He sat down in the chair beside her, heavily, like the drive had finally caught up with him. Up close, he looked older than the last time she'd seen him. Grayer. Thinner in a way that wasn't healthy.
Angelo was sixty-three. Short and stocky, built like a man who'd worked construction before his union job, then handyman work after. Salt-and-pepper hair that needed a cut. Heavy brow, deep-set blue eyes, bushy eyebrows that made every expression more intense than he probably meant. Hands thick with calluses, nails stained despite scrubbing. Second-generation Italian-American, raised Catholic, lived practical.
They sat in silence for a while. Then he spoke.
"I gotta tell you something."
Serafina turned to look at him.
"My heart's gotten worse."
The words landed flat, matter-of-fact, the way Angelo delivered all news. She waited.
"The doc changed my medications about six months back. Newer stuff. Works better, costs more." He shrugged. "The pension covers what it covers. Doesn't stretch to the new pills."
"How much more?"
"Eight, nine hundred a month. More if you count the other stuff." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I been stretching it. Skipping days. That's why I'm worse."
Serafina felt the ground shift beneath her. Another weight added to the pile. "Why didn't you tell anyone?"
"Aria's in school. You got your own life. What was I gonna do, add to the pile?" His blue eyes were steady, unapologetic. "I handled my own problems for sixty-three years. Wasn't about to stop."
She wanted to argue. She didn't. What would be the point?
She thought of her mother's final months—the bills piling up, Angelo working himself into the ground, refusing to ask for help until help wouldn't have mattered anyway. He hadn't changed. He never would.
Angelo was quiet for a moment. Then he straightened in his chair, the way he did when he'd made a decision.
"I'm selling the house."
Serafina went still.
"It's paid off," he continued. "Only thing I got worth anything. Three bedrooms, decent neighborhood. Needs work, but I could get three-fifty, maybe four hundred if I'm lucky." He met her eyes. "Whatever you need for Aria. You take it."
"No."
The word came out harder than she meant it to.
Angelo's brow furrowed. "Sera?—"
"No." She turned to face him fully. "That house is Aria's childhood. Her room is still there—the purple walls she picked when she was thirteen, the bookshelf you built her. That's where she learned to ride a bike. Even after the divorce, she spent every other weekend there. We did. Summers. Holidays."
