Val's pov
The hospital smell had soaked into my clothes.
That weird mix of antiseptic and burnt coffee that clung to my sleeves, my hair, my thoughts. It was the kind of air that made you feel like time was stuck. Like nothing mattered outside these walls.
Emma was asleep, her little frame curled beneath crisp white blankets, her breath steady now. Thank god.
I hadn't moved from the chair since they got her settled. I didn't want to. My body was exhausted, but my brain was still racing—spinning out scenarios, worst-case outcomes, what-ifs that made my stomach turn.
And then the door slammed open.
Not a knock. Not a gentle entrance. Just a rushed, breathless kind of chaos.
"Valentina—"
"Shh." I shot up, pressing a finger to my lips. "She's asleep."
My mom froze in the doorway, eyes darting to Emma's bed, the nurse at the far end of the room, then finally landing on me. Her lipstick was smudged, her blouse slightly wrinkled like she'd changed too quickly. A designer bag dangled from her wrist, clashing with the worry on her face.
I crossed my arms.
"What took you so long?" I whispered, sharp and cold.
"I came as soon as I—"
"No. You didn't." My voice dropped lower. "You didn't come when I called you twice. You didn't answer my texts. You didn't even check the ones I sent this morning."
She flinched. "I was—"
"With him," I snapped. "Like always."
The nurse cleared her throat quietly and left us alone.
My mom stepped farther into the room, her heels soft on the tile. "Your father wouldn't let me leave the office until the contract was signed. I tried to call back—"
"You always try. You never do." My arms tightened around myself. "Emma could've gotten worse. She was lying on the floor, Mom."
Her eyes glossed over. "I know, I know—"
"Do you?" I bit my lip. "Because this is exactly why I don't bother anymore. You're always with him. Always doing his thing. You show up when the smoke clears, not when the fire's burning."
She didn't defend herself this time. She just stood there, looking like someone had knocked the wind out of her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I wanted to be here. I swear to you, I did. But you know how he is. You know how he gets when someone doesn't obey."
My throat tightened.
Yeah. I knew.
"Emma needed you," I said, quieter now. "I needed you."
She looked at the floor, then back at me. "You shouldn't have had to do this alone."
I didn't respond.
What could I say? Thanks for the guilt trip? Congrats on noticing? It wouldn't fix anything. So I just sat back down beside Emma and stroked her hair gently while Mom pulled up another chair.
She didn't say anything else.
She just stayed.
---
We got discharged two hours later.
The sky outside was that pale hospital gray that made the world feel muted. I carried Emma, still groggy, into the car while Mom sorted out the papers. For once, we were quiet in the same way—no arguments, no tension, just… mutual fatigue.
At home, Mom helped Emma into bed. She tucked her in like she used to when I was little—soft hands, low voice, forehead kiss. And I hated how much I missed seeing that.
"I'm going to make soup," she said, glancing at me in the hallway. "Want some?"
I nodded, too tired to pretend I didn't want her to stay.
---
The kitchen felt warmer than usual. The kind of warmth that came from familiarity, not heat. I sat on the counter like I used to when I was six, watching her slice carrots with hands that were still shaking from earlier.
Neither of us said much at first. The only sounds were the simmer of broth and the clink of a spoon against the pot.
"Do you remember when you used to help me in here?" she asked quietly. "You'd always sneak the cheese cubes before I could melt them."
I snorted. "They tasted better unmelted."
She smiled. "Still does."
I paused, eyes on her face. She looked older than usual. Tired in a way makeup couldn't cover. But for once, she wasn't just a shadow trailing after Dad. She was here. Present.
"I miss this," I admitted before I could stop myself.
She looked over. "Me too."
When the soup was done, we ate at the dining table—just the two of us. Emma was asleep, the house was calm, and for the first time in what felt like years, it didn't feel like a battlefield.
It felt like... family. Not perfect. Not fixed.
But real.
And real was enough tonight.