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I blink my eyes open and look down at his face again, expecting to see his sleeping form—but I’m stunned. I see his lids twitch, the tube in his mouth shifting ever so slightly.

“Daniele…” I whisper his name. “Can you hear me?”

And then, it happens. The soft flutter of his eyelids.

I watch, breathless, as his eyes blink open. There’s a flicker of disorientation, but then they find me. His gaze is uncertain, slightly confused—but it’s there. He’s looking at me.

And for the first time, I see the apology in his eyes. He can’t speak, not with the tubes in his throat, but I hear him anyway. I feel the weight of what he’s trying to say—the regret, the understanding.

I feel it too.

Maria’s words hit me again, this time with far greater force now that I’m standing at his bedside.

“Daniele,” I say softly, my voice barely a whisper as I lean closer, still holding his hand. “I forgive you, my boy. Okay? I know you were just angry, confused, and lost. But I forgive you. I forgive you, and I am so, so sorry. I never wanted you to feel like you were unworthy of being my son, because that was the furthest thing from the truth. You may not be my blood, but you are my son. You’ve always belonged with me—DNA was never what made us family. You didn’t need my blood to be mine… You always were.”

The words hang in the air. A promise. A release. It’s all I can give him now. I am powerless to offer anything else.

A single tear slips from the corner of his eye, the light in his blue gaze locked on mine.

And then, just as quickly as the spark of life returned, it fades.

The monitors flatline.

The beeping morphs into a deafening silence.

His chest stills—and I know.

He’s gone.

“Daniele…” I whisper his name into the sterile room, the scream of the flatline echoing in the background—but I can’t even hear it anymore. “Go well, my boy.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing back the grief that threatens to consume me.

My son—my precious son—is no longer here.

The words I should have said years ago.

The things I should have done.

They’re all left behind.

But at least I had that one moment.

The one confession I needed him to hear.

I stand there for a long while, staring down at him, willing my heart to accept what’s happened.

But it doesn’t. It never will.

A parent is never meant to bury their child.

It’s the kind of heaviness that refuses to leave you—even as the years drift on.

And I will carry this hurt for as long as I live.

And that’s okay.

Because the pain I carry will always be proof of the love I still hold for my boy.