God, we were grateful.
She held both boys in that hospital bed, exhausted and white as the sheet, a big smile on her face and a prayer on her lips.
I believed that was the end of it.
Two sons.
A wife alive.
It was more than enough.
Then, seventeen years later, she stood in our bedroom with a test in her hand and looked at me like she was twenty-one again. Terrified. Laughing. Crying from joy or fear, she didn’t even know.
Pregnant.
At nearly forty.
Impossible, except it was not.
Dangerous, except not impossible.
The doctors were cautious. That is the word doctors use when they are trying not to frighten a man with money and power like mine.
Cautious. Careful. High risk.
Possible.
Possible if she rested.
Possible if they monitored closely.
Possible if nothing went wrong.
I hated the word possible.
Anna loved it.
She wanted that child.
She knew the risks. She listened to every doctor. She followed every instruction. She did everything right.
And still.
Still.
“I should have stopped it,” I say.
The words leave me before I decide to speak them.
Both my sons go still.
I have never said that aloud.
Not once.
Tomasso’s face changes.
“No.”
