Chapter One Hundred And Forty Nine

Two Days Later

Sofia had improved. Her color was better, her strength returning bit by bit. She still moved slowly, but there was determination in her every action.

And today, she was ready.

I had done everything to delay this moment. Avoided every conversation about when she could see the baby. But the doctor had given his approval this morning, and there was no stopping her now.

Me?

I hadn't even gone to the NICU.

I told myself it was because Sofia should see the baby first. That she should have that moment before anyone else.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

I couldn't bring myself to face the child.

Because what story could I tell them?

That they were born from violence? That their existence was a cruel twist of fate? That the first breath they took in this world was surrounded by tragedy?

I didn't even know the baby's gender.

Sofia didn't notice my hesitation. She was too focused on getting out of bed, on making it to the wheelchair the nurse had brought in. Her fingers trembled slightly as she gripped the armrests, but her expression was set, her hazel eyes burning with a mother's resolve.

I swallowed hard, stepping behind her. "Are you sure you're ready?"

She turned her head slightly, giving me a look that left no room for doubt. "Take me to our baby."

Our baby.

The words cracked something inside me, but I pushed it down and nodded.

The nurse led us through the hospital's quiet corridors. With every turn, my chest tightened. My pulse pounded in my ears as we approached the NICU doors, my hands gripping the wheelchair handles tighter than necessary.

Then we were inside.

The soft beeping of monitors filled the space, tiny incubators lined against the walls. Nurses moved carefully, tending to fragile lives that fit in the palms of their hands. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, but beneath it was something else.

Hope.

The nurse led us toward one of the incubators, her steps slow and measured. My heart pounded harder with every inch we moved closer.

Then I saw her.

A tiny, delicate bundle lay swaddled in a soft pink blanket, wires and tubes attached to her fragile form. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but she was here. She was fighting.

Sofia let out a broken sob, her hand flying to her mouth as tears streamed down her face. "She's so beautiful," she whispered.

I stood frozen.

A girl.

I had a daughter.

The realization slammed into me, knocking the breath from my lungs. I had spent the last two days drowning in guilt, in shame, but none of that mattered in this moment. Not when I was staring at the life Sofia had fought so hard to protect.

"She's stable," the nurse said gently. "Would you like to hold her?"

Sofia nodded frantically, her hands trembling as the nurse helped her cradle our daughter. As soon as the baby was against her chest, Sofia let out another choked sob, pressing her lips to the little girl's forehead.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't move.

Then Sofia turned her tear-filled gaze to the doctor. "Where's my other baby?" she whispered. "Where's my son or daughter?"

A heavy silence fell over the room.

The doctor's face fell, his lips pressing into a tight line.

"Sofia…" His voice was gentle, but the moment he spoke, she stiffened.

"No," she whispered. Her head shook, denial flashing in her eyes. "No, don't say it."

The doctor exhaled slowly. "I'm so sorry. He didn't make it."

He.

The single word shattered through me like glass.

A boy.

We had a son.

And we had lost him.

Sofia's entire body trembled as she clutched our daughter closer, silent sobs wracking her frame. I stood there, my chest hollow, my fingers curled into fists at my sides.

Sofia's sobs were silent but soul-crushing. Her shoulders trembled as she pressed her lips to our daughter's forehead, as if holding her tighter would make up for the life we lost.

I stood there, numb. The weight of the doctor's words pressed down on me, suffocating.

A boy.

I hadn't known. I hadn't even thought to ask. And now, I never would.

The room felt too small, too cold. My hands curled into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms, but the pain wasn't enough to pull me out of the storm raging inside me.

Sofia pulled back slightly, her tear-filled eyes locking onto mine. "Where is he?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The doctor hesitated. "Sofia-"

"Where is my son?" she demanded, her voice breaking.

A muscle in the doctor's jaw tightened before he nodded toward the far end of the NICU. "Would you like to see him?"

Sofia let out a shattered breath and nodded.

I swallowed hard, forcing my feet to move as I pushed her wheelchair forward. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if I was being dragged toward something I couldn't handle.

When we reached the small bassinet, I thought I was prepared.

I wasn't.

He was so small. Too small. Wrapped in a soft blue blanket, his tiny face was peaceful, untouched by the horrors of the world. His features were delicate, his hands curled into little fists. He looked like he was sleeping.

But he wasn't.

Sofia reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched his cheek. "He's beautiful," she choked out.

Her tears dripped onto the blanket, but he didn't stir. He never would.

A sharp pain twisted in my chest. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay still, to stay strong.

I had failed him.

I had failed both of them.

Sofia turned to me, her hazel eyes filled with devastation. "What do we name him?"

The question nearly brought me to my knees.

A name.

He deserved a name.

My throat tightened, and for a long moment, I couldn't speak. Then, somehow, I found my voice.

Sofia brushed her fingers over our son's tiny hand, her touch so gentle it was barely there. Her tears fell freely, dripping onto the soft blue blanket as she let out a shaky breath.

"Javier," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "Javier Caspian Rodriguez Vargas."

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening at the weight of the name.

Javier.

It was her father's name.

My throat burned, but I nodded. "Javier," I echoed.

He deserved a strong name, a name that meant something. And despite the agony in Sofia's voice, despite the sorrow in her eyes, she had given him that.

A sharp ache settled in my chest. He would never hear it. Never know how much he was loved. But his name would live on.

Sofia's grip tightened on our daughter, her lips brushing over her tiny forehead. "And her," she whispered. "She needs a name too."

I looked down at the small, fragile life in her arms. Our daughter. A survivor.

Sofia didn't hesitate. "Martha."

My breath caught.

Martha.

My mother's name.

A rush of emotion hit me so fast it nearly knocked me off balance. I had expected Sofia to pick something else-something tied to her family, her life. But she had chosen my mother's name without hesitation, as if it had been the only choice all along.

"Martha Clarissa Rodriguez Vargas," Sofia whispered, pressing her lips to our daughter's forehead.

My eyes snapped to hers, but she didn't flinch. She didn't hesitate. She only held our daughter closer, her silent tears soaking into the soft pink blanket.

I didn't speak. I couldn't.

She had chosen my mother's name.

And she had given them her surname.

She hadn't asked me. Hadn't even considered using mine.

Rodriguez Vargas. Not Vargas Rodriguez and-just hers.

It should have angered me. It should have sparked something inside me, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of loss.

She was claiming them. Naming them. Holding onto them with everything she had because she had already lost too much.

So I didn't question it.

I just nodded, the lump in my throat too thick to swallow.

"Javier and Martha," I murmured, their names settling into my chest, into my soul.

Our children.

One in her arms.

One lost to the heavens.

But both ours.

And in this moment, despite the unbearable grief, despite the pain I knew we would carry for the rest of our lives-our son had a name.

And our daughter had a future.