Mia

“I’m so sorry, Mia.” I look at her, and the guilt of mine feels like is making her heart sob out.

“This baby could have come to life, and you didn’t want it.” Her voice is filled with pain, and it cuts through me.

How do I explain it to her in a way we can both understand? A language we both speak? I was afraid, Mia. I’m afraid I’d be a terrible father. Afraid that when our child took their first steps, I wouldn’t be there for them.

She looks at me, her eyes filled with anger and hurt.

“Mia, I understand that you’re mad, but please, be patient with me.”

“I wish I could,” she raised her voice at me, her voice mixed with emotion. “I wish I could understand why you would do that. Why did you make me do that? And most of all, how you convinced me to go through with it. That baby would have had a loving mother. I should never have given up on it. Her words go through me, each one heavier than the last.

“Mia, I was overwhelmed by so many emotions. You have every right to hate me right now, but despite everything, I love you. And my love for you is bigger than the mistake I made.”

I don’t even know if I believe what I just said. Love has never come easily to me. She’s sitting in the grass of the hospital park, waiting for her mom to pick her up, and I wish I could be anywhere but here, witnessing this.

“Can I come with you, Mia?” I ask, my voice shaking and barely held up together.

“I don’t know, Dante,” she replies, her tone is unsure.

“Please?” I ask. “Let me fix this.” She looks at me with those innocent eyes, and it breaks me all over again.

When her mom arrives, I hug her tightly and whisper, “I’m sorry.” She hugs me back, and at that moment, it feels like she’s saying, I understand you. Don’t worry.

Later, as we ride home in silence, Mia leans her head against the window, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. When we finally get to her place, I help her inside, and she collapses onto the bed, too drained to do anything but lie there.

I sit beside her, not saying anything, just letting the quiet be around us. I watch as her breathing slows, and she falls asleep, the tension and all that pain are forgotten at the moment. I reach out and gently touch her hair, whispering, “It’s going to be okay, Mia. I promise.”

As she sleeps, I realize that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a way to heal. But for now, I’ll hold on to the hope that when she wakes up, we can start to piece things back together, one step at a time.