“Okay, thank you.” I take a deep breath and walk into my father's room.
The machines are still there. The beeping monitors, the hissing ventilator. Mom sits in the chair next to the bed, clutching my father's hand like she's afraid to let go. Vincenzo stands behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder in silent support.
And Dad.
His eyes are open.
Not fully, though. Just slits of consciousness. But they're open. After weeks of searching his face for any sign of life, any flicker of the man I knew, his eyes are finally open.
I cross the room, my legs wobbling like they’ve just morphed into Jell-O. My mother looks up at me, her cheeks tear-streaked. She scoots her chair over to make room for me.
“Francesco, look,” she whispers. “Adriana's here. Our girl is here.”
I lower myself into the chair next to Mom and take his hand. His skin is dry and thin, his fingers cool against my palm. For a long moment, nothing happens. He just stares at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the ventilator.
Then his gaze shifts. And slowly, his eyes track across the room until they find my face.
A spark flares with recognition and awareness. I clap my free hand against my mouth. My father is in there, behind those half-lidded eyes. And he sees me.
“Dad.” My voice breaks on the word. “Hi. I'm here. I'm right here.”
His lips move, but no sound comes out. The trach tube keeps him from speaking, and his expression tightens with frustration. He's trying to say something, but his body won't cooperate.
“Don't try to talk,” I say in a soft voice. “It's okay. You don't have to say anything. Just rest. I'm not going anywhere.”
I search his face for any sign that he understands me. His eyes stay locked on mine, and then I feel it. The tiniest twitch of his fingers against my palm. It’s not a squeeze, just a tiny flutter of movement, so gentle I might have imagined it.
But I didn't imagine it. I know I didn't.
“I've been handling things,” I say. “The business. The family. All of it. Just like you knew I could.” I pause to glance at my mother and Vincenzo before turning back to my father. “You were right to believe in me. I didn't think I could do it, but I am. I'm doing it, Dad.”
A single tear slides down his worn and weathered cheek. It catches in the lines beside his eye and slips toward his jaw.
My heart shatters and reforms all at once. He hears me. He understands. Somewhere inside that battered body, my father is still there. Still proud of me.
I lean forward and press my lips to his forehead.
“You just focus on getting better,” I whisper. “I'll take care of everything else until you're ready to come home. I promise.”
His eyes flutter closed. But his fingers give one more tiny twitch against my palm before he goes still.
I sit with him for a few more minutes, just holding his hand. Mom sits with her rosary beads in her hand, murmuring her prayers. Vincenzo stands between us.
I eventually force myself to stand. The doctor said to keep visits short, and I know Mom doesn’t want to leave him.
“I'll be back tomorrow,” I say to my mother. “Call me if anything changes.”
She nods and pulls me into a tight hug. “Thank you,tesoro.For everything you've done. Your father would be so proud.”
“He is proud,” Vincenzo says as we walk out together, his voice warming my insides. “I could see it in his eyes when he looked at you. He knows exactly what you've accomplished.”
I manage a watery smile. “Thanks, Zio.”
Luna hugs me tight when I step into the hallway. Lochlan is right where he said he'd be, leaning against the wall with his phone in his hand in the waiting room. He straightens when he sees us.
“How is he?”
“Awake. Sort of.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “He recognized me. At least, I think he did. The doctor says it's going to be a long road, but this is a good sign of things to come.”
