He lowered the phone slowly, staring at it for a moment, as if expecting it to argue back, to remind him who he was supposed to be.
But it didn’t.
Emma shifted closer to her mother, adjusting the blanket again, small hands moving with care that felt far too practiced for someone her age.
“You don’t have to stay,” Clara whispered weakly, her eyes barely open now. “We’ve already caused enough trouble for people like you.”
Rocco turned his head slightly.
“What kind of people is that?” he asked, his voice quieter than before, almost tired, like something inside him had begun to crack.
Clara didn’t answer right away.
Her breathing came shallow, uneven, like every word had to fight its way out through pain and exhaustion she could no longer hide.
“The kind who don’t come back,” she finally said. “The kind who help once, then disappear when things get complicated.”
Rocco felt that sentence land harder than any accusation.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
