And I had looked at her—
And called her a liar.
I exhaled sharply, my thoughts colliding.
But Elena had done twenty-one DNA tests, and they all came back negative—yet Matteo’s words didn’t feel like a lie.
The Spanish rarely lie; they tend to take responsibility.
I ended the call without another word.
My hand dropped to my side as we reached the ICU doors.
Double glass panels.
Frosted for privacy.
Inside—
Low lighting.
Soft beeping.
The quiet, mechanical rhythm of machines keeping something alive.
I stepped closer.
And froze.
In the center of the room stood a single incubator.
Glowing.
Surrounded by wires and tubes.
Inside—
My son.
So small.
So fragile it made my chest tighten just looking at him.
His skin was still faintly blue under the warming lights, but there was color now.
Not much. Just enough to suggest that something had shifted.
A knit cap covered his head.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven movements.
Mechanical.
Supported.
Not yet his own.
A CPAP mask rested over his tiny face, soft plastic and tubing helping him breathe when his body couldn’t do it alone.
