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The memory released me into an apartment where Salvatore would never again sit beside me and wait for the pain to loosen.

“I want my husband,” I sobbed. “I want to go home, and I don’t even know what home means without him.”

Cian’s face crumpled, but he didn’t reach for comfort he couldn’t give.

“I can’t give him back to you.”

“I know.”

“I can’t return the years you should have had with him, and I can’t make what happened hurt any less.”

“I know.”

“I can’t put Henry back in your arms.”

His name broke what little control I had left. I folded forward, pressing my forehead to my knees as grief forced its way through me.

“I want my baby.” The words came out raw and barely recognizable. “I want to hold my son without wondering who is watching. I want him to know I didn’t leave because I stopped loving him. I want him to remember my voice. I want to hear him call me Mom just once, even if it ruins me.”

Cian’s hand settled gently against the back of my head.

I didn’t pull away.

“I carried him,” I cried. “I felt every movement. Salvatore used to sleep with his hand on my stomach because he was afraid he would miss something. We chose his name together. We argued over the nursery. I fed him, bathed him, sang to him, and then I gave him away as if none of that made me his mother.”

“You didn’t let him go because none of it mattered.” Cian’s voice shook. “You let him go because all of it mattered more than what losing him would do to you.”

“Everyone says that like it should make me feel better.”

“It shouldn’t.” His fingers moved carefully through my hair. “Nothing I say can make this feel better. Any father who tells you he can fix this is lying, and you have had enough people lie to you.”

I lifted my head. Cian was crying openly now. His grief was not the same as mine, but he didn’t look away from it.

“What is a father supposed to say?” I demanded. “What do you say to a daughter whose husband is dead and whose son belongs to someone else?”

“There aren’t words.” His voice cracked. “A father says he’s sorry. He says it should never have happened. He says none of it was your fault. Then he stays quiet and stays close.”

I stared at him, unsure what to do with an answer that didn’t ask anything from me.

“I won’t decide your life for you, Maddie. I won’t tell you when to forgive your mother, what to call me, whether you should see Henry, or how long you’re allowed to love your husband. I will tell you the truth, even when it scares me. And when you tell me what you want, I’ll listen.”

“What if what I want is impossible?”

“Then I’ll grieve it with you.”

“What if I fall apart?”

“Then you fall apart.”

“What if I can’t put myself back together?”

Cian opened his arms. “Then let your father hold the pieces.”

I crossed the distance before fear could remind me what trust had already cost.

Cian gathered me against his chest and wrapped both arms around me. His hold was firm enough to steady me, gentle enough to leave me room to breathe. One hand cradled the back of my head while the other settled across my shoulders, anchoring me without trapping me there.

I cried for Salvatore until his name lost its shape. I cried for Henry—the infant I had held, the boy growing beyond my reach, the son who might never know the sound of my voice as his mother’s. I cried for the little girl who had gone home to Nolan night after night, never knowing the man she wished would save her had been standing nearby all along.