A cold chill moved down Mariana’s spine.
None of it was true.
For two years, she hadn’t once asked him to cancel a trip. She ran her own errands, bought groceries, visited her sister across town, and had even begun reading medical journals again.
While Mariana quietly tried to rebuild her life, Alejandro had been constructing a story at work about a helpless, unstable wife who survived only because of his noble sacrifice.
Shortly after nine, Sergio said goodbye.
Mariana waited until the front door clicked shut before leaving the bedroom to clear the table.
Suddenly, a man called from the entryway. “I’m so sorry, I forgot my cell phone on the side table!”
Sergio had returned.
The moment he looked up and saw Mariana beside the dining table, he froze.
He stared for several seconds as the color drained from his face.
“Dr. Torres?”
Alejandro appeared behind him, panic instantly tightening his expression. “You… you two know each other?”
Sergio didn’t even glance at Alejandro. He kept staring at Mariana. “You operated on my son.”
Mariana slowly lowered the plate to the table. “What was his name?”
“Daniel Mendoza,” Sergio whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “He was ten years old. He came into the trauma bay at two in the morning after a terrible fall. The ER team told us he probably wouldn’t survive the night.”
The memory returned like lightning.
A pale boy.
A terrified father in the corridor.
Four agonizing hours in surgery.
“Daniel…” she breathed.
Sergio smiled, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. “He’s alive, Doctor. He’s twenty-three now.”
For a second, Mariana forgot to breathe. “Truly?”
“He’s in his final year of medical school,” Sergio said, taking a step toward her. “He wants to be a trauma surgeon. Just like you.”
Sergio took out a business card and gently placed it on the table. “I’ve spent thirteen years wishing I could find you to say thank you.”
Alejandro remained rigid in the hallway, jaw clenched and posture tight with anger.
