Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
ENRICO FERRARA
Pale dawn light seeped slowly through the half-open curtains, spreading across the room and finding my eyes—bloodshot, exhausted—fixed on the ceiling since the night before.
I hadn’t slept for a single second.
I couldn’t silence the thoughts tearing through my mind on a loop.
Every hour of the night had been a punishment. A relentless confrontation with myself and with everything I’d done up to that point in my life. The memories didn’t come gently; they came sharp, in flashes, each one twisting the knife a little deeper.
I drew a deep breath, and the decision finally crystallized with absolute clarity in my devastated heart.
The only right thing to do—the only way to repair even a fraction of the damage I’d caused—was to step away from Valentina and Clara completely.
To leave them alone.
To let them rebuild their lives far from the shadow of my actions and the bitter consequences that followed me everywhere.
A brutal ache tore through my chest at the mere idea of not watching my daughter grow, not even being allowed to witness Valentina’s life from a distance. It felt like a sentence.
Cruel. Severe.
Deserved.
Because I was the only reason we were here.
I sat on the edge of the bed and dropped my head into my hands, fighting the wave of anguish threatening to suffocate me. I needed to find the strength to carry out that impossible decision. I needed to face Valentina and tell her that I was finally going to free them from me.
I stood with effort, feeling the weight in my bones and in my soul, and searched for my phone.
It was still dead on the nightstand.
I inhaled and plugged it in, committing—finally—to the conversation I had to have.
But the second the screen lit up, it flickered wildly with notifications.
Dozens.
Missed calls. Messages. André’s name filling the screen with escalating urgency.
A cold, dark premonition hit me as I opened them.
André: Enrico, pick up. It’s Clara. She was admitted overnight. We need you here NOW.
The floor seemed to collapse under my feet.
My breath failed.
Reality hit like a blunt strike to the ribs.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I grabbed the clothes I’d worn the night before, threw them on, and ran out the door—heart consumed by fear and a desperate, choking certainty that now, more than ever, I was going to be forced to face the consequences of every mistake I’d made.
The trip to Tiradentes had never felt so unbearably long.
Every second stretched into eternity. My heart pounded violently against my chest, and desperation tightened around my throat while guilt ate me alive from the inside.
When I finally reached the hospital, I moved through the corridors with reckless speed, searching for Valentina—or André—any sign of them.
I found my brother at the entrance to the pediatric wing, his face pale, eyes hollow with exhaustion and worry. The moment he saw me, relief crossed his features—mixed with dread.
“Enrico. Finally.” His voice was low but urgent. He stepped toward me.
“How are they?” I asked immediately, my voice thick with panic. “Any change since we spoke?”
I had called André as soon as my phone had held enough charge—while I was already on the move.
In that brief, brutal conversation, he told me Clara had suffered a severe anxiety episode during the night, likely triggered by the argument she’d witnessed between me and Valentina.
Her fever had spiked dangerously, and Valentina had rushed her to the hospital.
Clara had been medicated and stabilized—but she was still fragile.
And Valentina hadn’t left her side for even a second.
André shook his head, grief sitting heavy in his eyes.
“Same condition,” he said. “And Valentina hasn’t moved from her bedside once. She’s wrecked.” He swallowed. “Brace yourself, Enrico. This won’t be easy for anyone.”
I nodded, throat tight, painfully aware there was no way to prepare for what waited behind that door.
When I stepped into the room, whatever was left of my heart shattered completely.
Valentina sat beside the bed, holding Clara’s small hand between both of hers as if she could anchor our daughter to life through sheer will.
Clara’s eyes were closed. Her face was too pale, too small, too fragile.
The sight ripped the last piece of courage out of me and left me exposed—raw.
“Valentina…” I managed, barely audible, taking an uncertain step toward them.
She lifted her head.
Her eyes were swollen and red—proof of tears she hadn’t had time to hide. The moment her gaze landed on me, I saw rage, pain, and something very close to hatred burning in the dark of her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” she asked coldly.
The words were sharp enough to cut.
I swallowed hard, every muscle in my body tightening as I approached slowly.
“I had to come,” I said. “I had to see her. André told me what happened. I’m—” The apology tasted pathetic. “I’m sorry.”
Valentina stood—slow, controlled—and placed herself between me and our daughter like a shield.
“Sorry?” she repeated, voice flat with disbelief. “Is that all you have to say?” She pointed at the bed with a tremor of fury. “Do you understand what’s happening here, Enrico? Do you understand what your actions did to our daughter?”
The guilt that slammed into me nearly made my legs give out, but I couldn’t retreat.
Not this time.
“Valentina,” I said, forcing the words through the tightening in my chest, “I know I’m responsible. I know I’m guilty for all of this—for everything that’s happening.” My voice broke at the edges. “I came to own that. I came to try to fix what I destroyed.”
A bitter smile flickered across her face, grief shining behind it.
“You can’t fix this,” she said. “You can’t erase what you did.” Her voice hardened. “I will never forgive you for what you did to me.” Her eyes flashed, deadly. “But more than that—for what you did to our daughter.”
My throat closed.
Tears burned behind my eyes.
Clara shifted on the bed and murmured weakly, her small voice slicing through the tension like a blade.
“Mommy?”
Valentina turned instantly, as if I didn’t exist, stroking Clara’s face with tenderness.
“I’m here, my love. Mommy’s here.”
I watched, devastated, knowing I was the reason that hospital room felt like a tomb.
I stood there, useless, not knowing what to do with the reality I had created.
“Mommy,” Clara asked, voice shaky and small, “is the mean man making you cry again?”
Valentina shook her head quickly.
“No, baby. No.” And then—she lied. “He isn’t a mean man.” She forced softness into her voice. “Remember what Mommy told you? He’s my friend.”
Clara’s body tensed.
“He is mean,” she insisted, tears leaking. She turned her face toward me with a child’s blunt, terrifying truth. “Go away, mean man. Go away! You won’t make my mommy cry!”
I opened my mouth—words ready, apologies ready, truth ready—
And nothing came.
What could I say?
What was left?
I lowered my head, let out a long breath, and did what my daughter demanded.
I left the room.
I sat in the plastic chair outside the door, back against the wall, hands empty, heart breaking in slow motion.
I would stay there.
I would make sure they had anything they needed—at least for now.
And when Clara was discharged, I would do the rest.
I would erase every trace of my existence from their lives. I would clean up the sadness I’d spread the moment I reappeared. I would give them the chance to be happy again—even if it condemned me to a miserable existence for the rest of my days.
I deserved it.