“Hannah asked to speak with you.”
I stood so quickly my chair rolled backward.
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Is she alone?”
“She asked everyone else to leave.”
I followed Elena to the ICU.
At the doorway, Elena stopped.
“I’ll remain nearby.”
Hannah lay propped against two pillows. Color had returned faintly to her face, but she looked exhausted. An intravenous line disappeared beneath a bandage on her hand.
The silver bracelet rested on the bedside table.
I entered and closed the door behind me.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Five years had once seemed vast.
Now they felt like a thin sheet of glass between us—transparent enough to see through, sharp enough to cut.
“How are the babies?” she asked.
Her voice was hoarse.
“They’re stable. The girl is breathing with support. The boy needs more help, but the NICU team is watching him closely.”
“I want to see them.”
“As soon as your doctors approve it.”
She looked toward the window.
Rain still streaked the glass, blurring the city beyond it.
“You operated on me.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know before they brought me in?”
“No.”
A bitter, weary smile touched her mouth. “Of course not. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“That isn’t true.”
“You came because it was your job.”
“I came because you were dying.”
“That was your job.”
I let the words stand.
She had earned the right to say them.
“You told me not to let them take the babies,” I said. “Who were you afraid of?”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“You said it twice.”
“Then I was confused.”
“Hannah—”
“You saved us.” Her voice tightened. “I’m grateful. I mean that. But gratitude doesn’t give you permission to question me.”
“No.”
The answer seemed to surprise her.
I stepped back from the bed.
“You’re right.”
Her shoulders eased slightly.
I looked at the bracelet.
“Who is Daniel?”
Fear crossed her face so quickly that another person might have missed it.
I did not.
“He’s a friend.”
“We tried the number. It’s disconnected.”
“Then stop calling.”
“Hannah, you’re alone in a hospital with two premature babies. The social worker needs someone to contact.”
“I said I’m alone. That’s the answer.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Her expression changed.
For a moment, I saw the woman on my mother’s front steps again, soaked by rain, begging me to listen.
“Don’t,” she said.
“I only mean—”
“I know what you mean. You think because you’re here now, you can make everything different.”
“I know I can’t undo what happened.”
“You don’t know what happened.”
The quiet intensity of her voice stopped me.
“I know what my family did.”
“No. You know what they wanted you to believe.”
“I found proof that the messages were forged. The account was opened by one of my father’s employees. The photographs were altered.”
She stared at me.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
A small muscle moved in her jaw.
“And it took you three years to look?”
“I didn’t know there was anything to find.”
“You knew me.”
There it was.
The simplest truth.
The one answer I could not defend myself against.
“I should have believed you,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”