About half an hour later, after Sophie finishes her milk, I quietly make my way toward the bedroom.
Just one step from the door, I stop cold.
A split second before Jennifer turns away, I catch a glimpse—tears streaking silently down her face.
It takes a moment before I can move again. Slowly, quietly, I step inside. Sophie stirs a little as I lay her gently in the center of the bed.
"I'm going to sleep on the couch," I say softly. When Jennifer gives no response, I add, "Just call me if you need anything."
I've taken only a few steps away when her voice cuts through the silence.
"How can you not seem to regret it at all?"
I turn back toward her. "Who said I don't regret it?"
Jennifer finally meets my eyes. "So you do regret it?"
"Of course I do, Baby…"
"Good," she says, but there's no relief in her voice.
I walk back toward her and sit at the corner of the bed. "Baby… I'm really, really sorry." My voice is strained, trembling. "I'm sorry you have to be like this. I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… If only I hadn't followed my instinct—if I hadn't moved my head—then maybe you wouldn't…"
"You think that's what I want you to regret?!" she snaps, her voice rising.
I go silent. Truth is, I hadn't thought beyond that.
She scoffs through her tears. "You should regret making a deal with your mother. You should regret that you killed someone… again."
"Jen… I had to do it."
"After you promised me—"
"I HAD TO, DAMN IT!" I explode, leaping to my feet. "I told you—I HAD TO! That was the only way to save you!"
Sophie whimpers, then breaks into a wail. My heart clenches. Jennifer sits up, trying to soothe her, rocking her gently against her shoulder. I force myself to sit back down.
"Listen to me, Jen," I hiss, trying to choke back my anger. "I would do anything to save you…"
"NO!" she snaps again. Sophie cries harder. For the second time, we both fall silent, calming her.
Once Sophie quiets again, Jennifer turns to me with a cold, tear-streaked face. "You should have just brought me home… and let me die."
"That's NONSENSE!" I shout, unable to hold it back. "There's no way I would let you die!"
"You knew I didn't want to be involved with that organization anymore!"
"And I won't let you die!"
I grab her shoulders, shaking them—not hard, just enough to make her look at me. "I can't lose you, Jen!"
"If you could turn back time—promise me—"
"I WOULD DO THE SAME!"
"NO! Promise me—!"
"I WOULDN'T CHANGE A THING!"
"NO!!" Her voice cracks. "You have—You… You…"
Suddenly, Jennifer lets go of Sophie and clutches her chest.
In an instant, I know.
She's having another attack.
"No… No… NO! JEN!!!" I scream, lunging forward to grab her. "Hang on, Baby! Hang on!!"
My arms scoop Jennifer up instantly—her body limp against mine, Sophie still resting on her chest, now wailing in panic. I hold them both tightly and burst out of the house.
I run like hell toward the only hospital I know—St. Virgin Mary Hospital—ten kilometers away.
Ten kilometers that, in any other condition, would be impossible.
But not now.
I lock my mind into fighter-jet mode. The world blurs. Wind howls past me. Less than thirty seconds later, I land at the hospital's Emergency Room entrance—legs burning, lungs on fire.
"Help!! Please—HELP!!" I shout, still cradling both of them—my unconscious wife and my screaming daughter.
A paramedic rushes toward us. "What's going—"
"She's having a heart attack!" I shout before he finishes. "Please!"
His eyes widen as he waves for his team. "Get her inside! Heart attack—move!"
He guides me to an ER bed and helps lower Jennifer onto it.
"We need Doctor Thompson—now!" he barks at his team. Then he gently lifts Sophie from Jennifer's chest and hands her to me. "Sir, please. We've got her now. Wait outside."
I obey him like a ghost—silent, breathless, and shaking—as the ER doors close between us.
Sophie's still crying. Her little hands tremble as she clutches at nothing.
I can't even speak.
-
By the time I'm allowed back into Jennifer's room, I have no strength left. Not in my legs. Not in my heart. I sink onto a stool beside her bed, where she now sleeps, stabilized, monitors beeping steadily beside her. The nurses told me she's out of danger—for now. One of them took Sophie to the nursery so she could be cared for while I… while I try not to fall apart.
I stroke Jennifer's hair, gently kiss the back of her hand, and whisper, "I'm sorry, Baby…"
Again. For the thousandth time.
I should've held back. I should've let her give silent treatment on me. I should've swallowed my anger. I should've done anything but lose control.
She's too fragile for this.
The heart transplant was supposed to happen soon. I'd even planned to take her to a top cardiologist tomorrow. But now?
Now, here we are again.
She stirs. My eyes snap to her face just as her lashes begin to flutter open.
"Hi, Baby…" I whisper. "Are you feeling better?"
She gives the faintest nod.
Tears blur my eyes.
"Please… don't leave me." My voice breaks as I lean in and kiss her forehead. "Please."
Her hands reach up, soft and trembling, and catch my cheeks. She gently guides my face toward hers until our eyes meet.
"Promise me you'll never go back to them," she whispers.
"Baby… please…"
"Promise me," she urges again, her voice cracking as tears slide down her cheeks.
I brush the tears from her skin, ignoring my own. "I promise," I whisper.
"No matter what," she adds, holding my gaze firm.
I hesitate. I start to look away, but her hand pulls me back.
"Babe…" I try to reason, but the way she's looking at me—the raw vulnerability, the desperation—I can't deny her.
I sigh. Deeply. "Okay…"
"Okay what?" she presses.
I swallow hard. "Okay. I won't have anything to do with the organization."
Finally, finally, a small smile blooms on her face.
But I'm not done.
I take her hand and place it over my heart. "But you have to promise me something too."
She blinks.
"Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you'll live. Promise me, Jen—don't leave me and Sophie alone."
Her eyes water again. She nods, slowly but surely. "I promise."
That's all I need.
I lean down and kiss her—softly, deeply—as we seal this promise with more than just words.