22. Antonio
— ? —
Antonio
The waiting room is painted the color of optimism.
Soft yellow walls, cheerful prints of flowers, magazines fanned across a coffee table like someone actually expects people to read them. I’ve been staring at the same cover - something about Mediterranean diets - for fifteen minutes, trying to look like I’m not nervous.
I’m extremely nervous.
Cassandra is beside me, filling out paperwork with the focused attention she brings to everything, her handwriting neat and decisive on the medical forms. Twenty weeks.
Halfway through the pregnancy. Today is the anatomy scan, the big one where they check that everything is developing properly, and I haven’t slept well in three days.
“You’re going to wear a hole in that chair,” she says without looking up.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve filled out your emergency contact information three times. On the same form.”
“I want to make sure they can reach me.”
“Antonio. It’s your own phone number.”
She sets down her pen and looks at me. “It’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know that worrying about it won’t change anything. And I know that you making yourself sick with anxiety isn’t helping anyone.”
She’s right. She’s always right about this kind of thing. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it in your bones are two different skills, and I’ve never been good at the second one.
“Guerriero?” The nurse appears at the doorway, smiling professionally. “We’re ready for you.”
Cassandra gathers her things and I follow her down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and artificial flowers, into a small room dominated by an examination table and a machine that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie.
The nurse instructs Cassandra to lie back and lift her shirt, and I position myself in the chair beside her, trying to stay out of the way while remaining close enough to see.
The gel is cold - Cassandra flinches when the technician applies it - and then the wand is pressing against her belly and the screen is filling with grainy shadows.
“Let’s take a look,” the technician says.
The image shifts and swirls, abstract patterns that slowly resolve into something recognizable. A curve that might be a spine. A flutter that might be movement. And then-
“There’s the heartbeat,” the technician says, pointing to a rhythmic pulse on the screen. “Strong and steady, right where it should be.”
I forget how to breathe.
That’s our baby. That flickering light, that tiny moving shape, that impossible miracle of biology and timing and everything that had to go right for this moment to exist. I’ve known about the pregnancy since the hospital, of course - since Cassandra told me with her hospital gown still on and her boundaries already drawn.
But knowing is different from seeing. Knowing is abstract. This is real.
“Everything looks good so far,” the technician continues, moving the wand to capture different angles. “Head, spine, limbs - all developing normally. Would you like to know the sex?”
I look at Cassandra. She looks at me.
“Do we want to know?” I ask.
“I’ve been going back and forth.” She studies the screen, her expression thoughtful. “Part of me wants the surprise. But part of me wants to be able to plan.”
“What does your gut say?”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Tell us.”
The technician adjusts the angle, studying the image with practiced eyes. “Congratulations. You’re having a girl.”
A girl.
I’m going to have a daughter.
The room blurs slightly, and I realize I’m crying - actual tears, rolling down my cheeks in front of a medical professional and the woman I’m still technically separated from. I swipe at my face, embarrassed, but Cassandra reaches over and takes my hand.
“A girl,” she says softly.
“A girl.”
We sit there for a moment, holding hands, watching our daughter move on the screen. It’s the closest I’ve felt to her since before everything fell apart - this shared moment of wonder at the thing we’ve made together.
***
After the appointment, I drive us back to the estate.
Cassandra is quiet in the passenger seat, one hand resting on her belly in a way that’s become habitual over the past weeks. The ultrasound images are in her bag - she asked for copies, and the technician printed extras without being asked.
“I want to show my parents,” she says. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
“I don’t know. I’m asking.”
“Show them. Show everyone. I’d put it on a billboard if you’d let me.”
She almost smiles. “Let’s not get carried away.”
We stop at her parents’ house first, and I hang back while she shares the news with Marta and Carlo.
Their joy is uncomplicated in a way mine can’t be - pure grandmother and grandfather excitement, unburdened by the complicated history between their daughter and me.
I watch from the doorway as Marta cries and Carlo claps me on the shoulder like I’ve done something heroic.
“A granddaughter,” he says, his voice rough. “I never thought I’d…” He stops, composes himself. “You’ll do right by them. Both of them.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
It’s not an insult. It’s advice. The kind of advice a father gives a man he’s not sure about but is willing to give a chance.
***
That evening, I make dinner at my rental while Cassandra rests on the couch.
She didn’t ask to stay. I didn’t ask her to. But somehow, after the scan and the news and the visit to her parents, we ended up here - in the small kitchen of the apartment I’ve been living in for months, me chopping vegetables while she watches something on her phone.
“The counselor called,” I say. “To confirm our appointment next Tuesday.”
“I got the same message.”
“So we’re still doing this?”
“We said we would.” She looks up from her phone. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t.”
Three sessions so far. Three hours of sitting in a neutral room with a professional mediator, learning how to say the things we’ve been avoiding for years. It’s not easy - most sessions leave me feeling raw and exposed - but it’s helping. I can feel it helping.
“Something’s happening online,” Cassandra says, her voice suddenly different. Harder.
“What kind of something?”
She hands me her phone. On the screen is a gossip site, the kind that trades in celebrity drama and manufactured outrage. The headline makes my stomach drop.
CASSANDRA GUERRIERO: THE JEALOUS WIFE WHO DESTROYED A FRIENDSHIP?
The article is a rehash of Bianca’s interview, padded with anonymous “sources” who claim to have witnessed my wife’s “erratic behavior” and “unfounded accusations.” It paints Cassandra as unstable, vindictive, the villain of a story in which Bianca is the innocent victim.
“This is bullshit,” I say.
“Of course it’s bullshit. But it’s bullshit that people are reading.”
I scroll through the comments. They’re worse than the article - vicious speculation about our marriage, armchair psychology about Cassandra’s “obvious insecurities,” praise for Bianca’s “grace under pressure.”
“I need to make a statement,” I say.
“You already made a statement. Months ago.”
“That was different. That was damage control. This needs to be something more.”
I hand her back the phone and pull out my own, composing a post in my head as I pace the small kitchen. It has to be careful - I can’t mention the pregnancy, can’t share details that are ours alone - but it needs to be clear. Definitive.
“What are you going to say?” Cassandra asks.
“The truth. That I was the problem, not you. That my neglect of our marriage created a situation that others exploited. That any narrative painting you as jealous or unstable is a lie.”
“That’s going to make you look bad.”
“I should look bad. I was bad.” I stop pacing. “Cass, I can’t let this stand. I can’t let people think you’re the villain when I’m the one who…”
“I know.” She cuts me off gently. “I know you can’t. I’m just saying - think about what it’s going to cost you.”
“I don’t care what it costs me.”
“You should. Your career…”
“My career can survive me taking responsibility for my own mistakes. And if it can’t, then it’s not a career worth having.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she nods.
“Okay. Say what you need to say.”
I type the statement carefully, word by word, reading it back to her before I post. It’s everything I promised - full acknowledgment of my failures, clear defense of her character, no mention of the pregnancy or the details of our reconciliation.
Just a man admitting he was wrong and asking the public to direct their judgment where it belongs.
The responses start coming immediately. Most are supportive - people impressed by the honesty, moved by the vulnerability. But I know it won’t stop the narrative entirely. Bianca has her own audience, her own platform, and she’s not going to let this go quietly.
“She commented,” Cassandra says, looking at her phone. “Bianca.”
“What did she say?”
Cassandra reads it out loud: “‘I’m glad Antonio is finding peace. I only wish he’d found it sooner, before innocent people were hurt by his wife’s accusations. Sending love and light to the whole family during this difficult time.’”
Love and light. The words drip with false sincerity.
“She’s not done,” I say.
“No. She’s not.”
The evening settles around us, the cheerful news of the scan overshadowed by the reminder that our troubles aren’t over. Bianca is still out there, still pushing her version of events, still waiting for an opportunity to cause damage.
I help Cassandra to her feet - her balance has shifted with the pregnancy, and the stairs at her parents’ house have become challenging. As we walk to the car, she stumbles slightly on an uneven paving stone, and I catch her automatically, my hand at her elbow.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“I know.”
“You can let go.”
“I know that too.”
But when she shifts, I let go immediately.
She looks at me for a moment - then reaches back, lacing her fingers through mine.
A small win. I’ll take it.