33. Chapter 33
I leave the towel on the floor.
Maksim is content for now—back to rolling his truck across the coffee table, muttering sounds that are half-Spanish and half-nonsense. His world is still small and safe, filled with toys, hugs, and stories.
Mine is suddenly full of dread.
I move to the corner of the apartment where I keep my laptop tucked beneath a stack of cookbooks I rarely touch. The small desk barely fits beside the bookshelf, but it’s where I come when I want to peek at the world I left behind.
I open the screen and log in, each keystroke stiff.
My hands are still trembling. I blink past the blurriness forming in my vision and type in the name of the news site I’ve used for three years—the one that covers New York’s elite, the kind of publication that calls my father a “philanthropic visionary” in one sentence and a “controversial powerhouse” in the next.
Thiago Delgado.
I press enter and wait.
The search loads slowly, and when it finally does, I scan the results but find nothing new. No charity event appearances. No quotes from public speeches. No updates on Delgado Group expansions, political donations, or even sightings at his usual cigar lounges.
I scroll all the way but still find nothing new. It’s been over a month since he was last mentioned. It is an article about a shipping deal, posted with a recycled photo from an early spring gala. That was the last time he appeared in front of a camera.
Fear grips my heart because Thiago Delgado doesn’t just disappear from headlines. Not unless something’s very, very wrong. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry.
I close the laptop with a shaky hand and stand. My legs feel too thin to hold me as I walk to the shelf above my dresser and pull out my tiny blue leather jotter. The cover is smooth and worn with time. I slide into the back, past the lines of fake names and coded notes, until I find what I need.
Papá.
I take a breath and dial, but it goes straight to voicemail. My lips part, but no sound comes. The only emotion whirling within me is dread, thick and rising like floodwater in my chest. I stare down at the phone, its screen dark again, my reflection faint and haunted in the glass.
My father never turns his phone off.
Not even when he’s on a plane or in the middle of a meeting.
This can only mean that something is wrong. Terribly wrong. I hold the phone against my heart and try to stop shaking. But my hands won’t listen, and they won’t stop shaking.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the phone still warm from the unanswered call to Papá. My breathing is too fast, too shallow, like my lungs are working against my ribs.
The blue jotter is still open in my lap. I flip past his name and go to my mother’s phone number. My fingers hesitate over the number, and even though I’m not ready, I dial anyway.
The phone rings once, twice, three times, and then—click.
“Mom?”
There is a pause on the other side, then her voice comes through, soft and steady, like honey melting in warm tea.
“Mija…”
The sob rips from my chest before I can stop it. I cover my mouth with one hand as tears burn down my cheeks. I haven’t heard her voice in years, and somehow it feels like no time has passed at all.
“Mom, I…”
“Oh baby…” Her voice cracks, and I can hear her smile through it. “I was hoping you’d call.”
I try to breathe, but I can’t get the words out fast enough. They tumble over each other like rocks in a flood.
“Is papa—?”
She doesn’t ask what I mean. She knows that I already somehow sense that all is not well.
“Your father is dying.”
The words tear through me like shrapnel. I crumple forward, the phone pressed tight to my ear, my hand still clamped over my mouth as if that might keep me from shattering completely.
Dying.
The word echoes like a final sentence. I try to pull myself together enough to speak.
“What happened?” I whisper. “Why didn’t anyone try to find me?”
Mom sighs. It’s the kind of sound that carries weight, and months of pain folded into one exhale.
“It started suddenly,” she says. “He was tired. Just tired, at first. We thought it was stress. He had back pain. Then swelling. He kept brushing it off. Said he’d get checked after the trade summit in Colombia.”
Her voice falters.
“But it got worse. He fainted two weeks ago. The doctors say it’s stage five kidney failure. He’s on dialysis now while they try to get a match.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely now.
Dialysis.
That word alone tells me more than she’s saying.
“And he… he didn’t want me to know?” I whisper.
“No,” she says softly. “He said… ‘She left to be free. Let her have that.’”
A sob tears from my chest.
“He didn’t want to make you feel obligated, Xiomara. He thought he would recover. He said you’d be angry if we pulled you back into a world you fled from.”
I can’t stop crying. My breath catches on every inhale.
“And you… why didn’t you try to find me anyway?”
She’s quiet for a beat.
“Because I wanted to believe him,” she says. “I wanted to believe he’d get better. That this was just another thing he’d muscle through. You know how he is.”
I nod even though she can’t see me, tears stream down my face.
“But now he’s not getting better,” Mom whispers. “And I—” Her voice breaks. “I don’t know how to live without him.”
My heart splits in two.
They’ve been together since they were teenagers. I remember the way they would still look at each other like no one else existed. The private smiles, the forehead kisses. My mother still calls him ‘ mi cielo’ —my sky.
She sniffles. “He’s only fifty-five. That’s too young. It’s too soon. I can’t—”
I straighten through the tears, wiping my face with the back of my hand, trying to steady my breath.
“Mom,” I say, softly but firmly. “I’m coming home.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
“You are?”
“Yes.” My voice steadies. “Right now. I’m packing. I’ll find a flight within the hour.”
“Your father thinks you shouldn’t, because the cartel is in a mess at the moment. Several leaders are circling your father like vultures waiting for a dying carcass.”
Her words paint a picture that drives a knife into my heart. “No, Mom, he’s not dying.”
“Xiomara…” She starts, but doesn’t finish, because just then, Maksim runs into the room, his curls bouncing, his tiny voice urgent.
“Mamá, ven. Mira, mira el elefante!”
(Mommy, come! Look, look at the elephant!)
He tugs at the hem of my shirt, wide-eyed and grinning, pointing at something on the TV in the next room.
I feel my Mom freeze on the other end, as she goes very, very quiet.
“What’s that—?” she asks slowly. “Xiomara… whose voice was that? And what did that child call you?”
I close my eyes and I exhale. “That’s my son,” I say softly. “His name is Maksim.”
Mom gasps.
“You… you have a child?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “He’s two.”
“Who is his father? Are you two together?”
“Mom, please, I will tell you everything when I come. This is not a conversation that we should have over the phone.”
The line stays quiet for a long moment before she speaks again.
“You’re bringing him with you, right?” Her voice trembles.
“Yes.”
Maksim tugs again, impatient now. “Mamá, elefante, ?mira!” he insists.
I nod and ruffle his curls, kissing the top of his head even as my heart twists inside my chest.
“I’ll explain everything when I come home tomorrow,” I tell her again.
She exhales a trembling breath on the other end. And then, finally:
“I can’t wait to see you and my grandson. This will really cheer your father up.”
“I’m already on my way,” I say, smiling.
We say our goodbyes and hang up reluctantly.
After the call, I open my laptop again, my fingers flying across the keys as I search for flights. I enter the route—Alicante to New York, the quickest connection I can find. There is only one flight today, and it departs in thirty-five minutes.
“Oh shit.” I curse under my breath.
There’s no way I can pack both my bag and Maksim’s and still make it to the airport in that amount of time.
I refresh the results and click through the filters, but it still shows only this one flight heading to New York for today.
Unless I can find my way to Madrid and fly to other cities in the United States.
I do a quick calculation and find that it's no use flying to other cities, because it would mean another connecting flight to New York. Instead, I book two seats against the next day. Once the confirmation hits my inbox, I grab the phone again and call Mom. She answers on the first ring.
“I couldn’t get a flight for today,” I inform her. “But I booked the earliest flight for tomorrow morning. We land just after nine.”
I hear the relief in her voice, wrapped in tears. “Okay. That’s okay. Just come. Just come, mi nina. Come with my grandson.”
“I will. We’ll be there.”
I look over at Maksim, who’s now parked in front of the TV, mesmerized by dancing cartoon animals. His innocence makes my chest tighten.
I begin packing.
Clothes. Passports. Snacks. His favorite blanket. The soft gray dino he won’t sleep without. I move quickly, methodically, not allowing myself to think too long on anything.
All day, I check in with Mom, and during one of our calls, I finally get to speak with my father.
“What is this I am hearing that you hid my grandson from me?” He asks weakly.
“Don’t worry, Papa, I will tell you everything when I come.”
He grunts and reluctantly agrees. Not because he does not want to argue, but because his illness has left him too weak to do anything else.
I ask Mom to send me updates, and she does. Each time, I feel the knot in my chest pull tighter.
Night falls slowly.
Maksim falls asleep early, curled against my side, unaware that the world is about to shift beneath his feet.
I lie beside him in bed, one hand on his back, the other clutching my phone. Every few hours, I message Mom again. I can’t sleep, and don’t want to, because every hour that passes is one hour closer to home.
And I can’t deny that part of me wonders if I’ll ever run into Zasha in New York. After all, we move in the same circle.