“Yes.” His voice is hoarse. “I see him.”
Leon looks so small, surrounded by monitors and tubes. There’s a breathing tube down his throat, an IV in his tiny hand, wires trailing from his chest. His skin is still yellow, but somehow, he looks better. Stronger. Or maybe I just want to believe that.
“He’s breathing,” Cristiano says, like he’s confirming it to himself. “He’s really breathing.”
“He’s really breathing. He made it. You saved him.”
He looks up and turns the phone away from his face. “Look at him. Look at my son.”
Mom and Adora appear on the screen. Mom is crying. Adora is smiling. They whisper to Leon as he sleeps, telling him how proud they are of him, their voices soft and tender.
“Now use that morphine pump and get some sleep,” I tell Cristiano. “I’ll come back when he’s settled.”
“Okay.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Okay, Mina.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket. At my son’s bedside, I pull a chair close, and take his small hand in mine.
For several hours, I just sit with him. Drinking him in. The rise and fall of his chest. The soft beep of the monitors. The color slowly returning beneath the yellow of his skin.
I memorize every detail. The curl of his fingers. The sweep of his lashes against his cheeks. The way his brow furrows slightly, even in sleep, just like his father.
I press a kiss to Leon’s forehead, careful not to disturb the tubes.
“Papa saved you,” I whisper. “We both love you so much.”
I could stay here all night, watching him breathe. But I want to check on Cristiano. The nurse assures me that someone will always be close if Leon wakes.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell my son. “I’ll be right down the hall.”
The walk back to Cristiano’s room feels longer than before. My legs are heavy, my eyes burning.
I push open the door quietly. Cristiano is asleep. Really asleep this time, not the fitful, drugged drifting off like before, but deep and still. He’s finally used the morphine pump. His face is relaxed, the tension gone.
The room is empty now. Adora has returned to her husband, and Mom has gone home for some much-needed rest.
I sink into the chair beside Cristiano’s bed and take his hand in mine. He stirs slightly, his fingers tightening around mine, even in sleep, and then settling again.
Through the window, the stars are scattered across the darkening sky.
I have them both back. My son down the hall, breathing, healing. This man beside me, who gave part of himself to save him.
For the first time in days—maybe for the first time in years—the tight knot of fear in my chest begins to loosen.
Thank you, I think. To Cristiano. To the surgeons. To whatever force in the universe let me keep them both.
Cristiano’s hand stays warm in mine.
We made it.
We all made it through today.
19
Cristiano
Iwake to a soft rustle of movement near my bed.
I keep my eyes half closed, watching Mina through my lashes. She’s standing at my bedside replacing yesterday’s flowers with fresh ones from the garden. White roses this time, their petals catching the morning light streaming through the window. She’s wearing soft clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, revealing the curve of her throat—and her dark hair is loose down her back, falling in waves that make my fingers itch to touch.
