I had resources.
And she —
Was still fighting alone somewhere in Italy.
That uncertainty ate at me.
Every day.
I turned slowly toward the bassinet.
Our daughter lay there now — swaddled tightly.
Her tiny chest rose and fell peacefully.
Her fingers flexed slightly in sleep.
Alive. Safe.
Chapter 11
ELENA
Five days passed in a blur.
The hospital suite became a protective cocoon.
Doctors insisted on monitoring me closely for postpartum complications.
Blood pressure checks. Physical examinations.
Uterine recovery tracking.
They wanted to ensure I didn’t develop infections or internal bleeding.
I complied.
Not because I felt weak —
But because I understood risk.
The baby’s vitals were checked constantly.
Her oxygen levels.
Heart rhythm. Weight.
Temperature.
Everything documented with precision.
The room smelled sterile.
Quiet.
It felt safe.
Petros visited daily.
