Chapter 4 - The Midnight Watch
Three days passed in a blur of fluorescent lights, shifting nursing shifts, and the constant, agonizing tally of medical metrics. Mariana’s leg had stopped worsening, meaning the surgery was put on hold, but she remained completely bedridden, her body fighting the intense inflammatory response caused by the clots.
The emotional distance between them was a physical presence in the room. Mariana felt an overwhelming guilt that threatened to swallow her whole. Every time the fetal heart monitor dipped, even for a second, she would gasp, her eyes wide with terror, looking at Diego as if expecting him to blame her.
"Stop looking at me like that," she whispered on the fourth night. The city outside was covered in a sheets of cold rain, the sound rattling against the double-paned hospital window.
"Like what?" Diego asked, lifting his head from the edge of her mattress.
"Like I'm a glass vase you're waiting to see shatter," she said, her voice cracking. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that if I had just told you the truth when the pharmacy turned me away in April, we wouldn't be here. The baby wouldn't be starving inside me."
Diego stood up. He didn't yell—he didn't have the energy—but his voice was thick with an intense, quiet passion. "I am angry, Mariana. I am angry that you didn't think our marriage was strong enough to handle the truth. I am angry that you thought I would look at your past and see a flaw instead of a tragedy. But I am not angry at you for being sick. Do you understand me?"
He leaned over the bed, his face inches from hers. "We are partners. You don't get to decide what burdens I carry. We carry them together, or we drop them together. But no more secrets. No more hiding under blankets."
Mariana closed her eyes, a fresh torrent of tears washing down her cheeks. "The clinic in Miami... they told me I shouldn't try again. They said my body was too hostile. But when I saw that positive test with you, Diego, I wanted it so badly. I wanted to give you the one thing you always talked about. I thought if I prayed enough, if I stayed still enough, I could beat my own blood."
Diego climbed onto the narrow hospital bed beside her, careful of the countless lines attached to her arms. He pulled her against his chest, feeling the heavy, uneven thumping of her heart.
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"We don't need a miracle baby to be a family," he murmured into her hair. "We just need to survive this. You and me. If the baby makes it, we thank God every day. If he doesn't, we hold each other and we grieve, but we don't hide."
For the first time since she had retreated to their bed weeks ago, Mariana’s shoulders relaxed. She wept openly, clearing out the toxic accumulation of fear and isolation that had nearly cost her her life. Beneath the sheets, the baby kicked—a small, sharp nudge against Diego’s ribs that felt less like a medical statistic and more like a stubborn declaration of intent.
