I crossed to him, and we held each other. Father and daughter, united in loss.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'm so sorry, Papa."
"She was my daughter. And I failed her. Just like I failed you."
We sat on the couch, both of us crying, processing the reality that Bianca was gone.
"The funeral will be Friday," Giovanni said eventually. "Small. Private. Just family."
"I'll be there."
He looked at my belly. "You shouldn't have to—in your condition—"
"She was my sister. I'll be there."
We sat in silence for a moment. Then Giovanni gestured to the covered object he'd brought.
"I made this. For Lucia. Before—" His voice broke. "Before I got the news about Bianca. I wanted to bring it anyway. To show you—to show you I'm trying. That I want to be better. For your daughter. For you."
He uncovered it slowly.
The carousel horse.
Intricately hand-carved wood, painted in soft pastels—cream and gold and rose. A masterpiece of craftsmanship. The kind of heirloom passed down through generations.
"Papa," I breathed. "It's beautiful."
"I spent three months carving it. Thinking about Lucia. About being her nonno. About having a chance to do better." His tears fell onto the painted surface. "Bianca will never meet her. Will never have this chance. But I do. And I don't want to waste it."
The grief, the sincerity, the desperate hope—it was all there in his face.
"I forgive you," I said, surprising myself. "Not for Bianca—that's between you and her, wherever she is. But for me. For what you did. I forgive you."
"Why? After everything—"
"Because life's too short. Bianca's gone. We can't get that time back. But we have now. We have Lucia coming. And I'd rather spend that time building something than holding grudges."
"I don't deserve this."
"Probably not. But you're getting it anyway. With conditions."
"Anything." I laid them out—the same boundaries I'd planned before. Honesty. Respect. Therapy. Earning his role as nonno every single day.
He agreed to all of it. Gratefully. Humbly.
"Thank you," he said. "For giving me this chance. I won't waste it. I promise."
After he left—the carousel horse now standing in Lucia's nursery—Cesare found me staring at it.
"You okay?" he asked.
"My sister's dead. My father's trying to be better. I'm halfway through pregnancy with a daughter who'll never meet her aunt." I turned to him. "I have no idea if I'm okay."
"That's fair."
"But I think—maybe—I will be. Eventually."
He pulled me close. "We should get ready for the ultrasound. See our girl."
