The house filled with medical equipment, adapted chairs, toys that no longer brought joy. Before the accident, Sofia kicked her legs, twisted to grab her feet, giggled when Helena kissed her belly. Afterward, her tiny legs seemed distant, like they belonged to another child. Rafael held her close, and though she weighed almost nothing, she felt as heavy as the world.
The months blurred into meetings and baby bottles, contracts and diapers. Rafael tried to exist as two men: the tech executive who couldn’t pause his company, and the father who couldn’t pause his grief. His partners urged him to take time off. He smiled and promised to consider it, knowing the truth—work was the only thing keeping him upright. If he stopped, the sorrow would swallow him whole.
Then there were the caregivers.
The first quit after three days. The second vanished with an excuse. The third lasted a week. The fourth, two. The fifth cried as she left and said words that haunted him:
“I can’t handle this.”
Each departure felt like another abandonment—not just of Sofia, but of hope itself.