Page 176 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

Is it too late?

But she couldn’t ask—and knew they wouldn’t tell her anyway. Her grip on Vincenzo’s hand tightened. He was saying nothing—not to her, not to the doctors. She knew she had to let the doctors get on with it.

Silently, terrified, she urged them on.

Hurry—hurry—hurry!

She was being put into some kind of hospital gown, then turned on her side. Vincenzo was still holding her hand, and some kind of injection was being made into her spine. Then some kind of screen was being placed below her ribs and she couldn’t see anything—anything at all—or feel anything except the tsunami of terror, of guilt, churning her into pieces...

Her other hand, which could no longer go to where it longed to be, started to flail helplessly, hopelessly, and Vincenzo caught it, pressed it with his own.

‘Stay calm...they are doing what they must.’

His voice was strained, his expression strained too, and her eyes clung to his. There was desperation in her clinging. Despair in her terrified, whispering voice.

‘We’re losing our baby—oh, Vincenzo, we’re losing our baby!’

Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all...

Only the fear, the terror, knifing her over and over again...

He pressed her hands, saying nothing—because what, she thought fearfully, could he say?

What was going on beyond the screen she did not know—dared not know. Knew only that it was taking an unbearably, agonisingly long time.

Until...

There was movement. Something was happening. Though she could still feel nothing...nothing at all. To the side of the screen she could see the midwife carrying something...something that made no noise.

She gave a broken cry, and Vincenzo twisted to see what he could, never letting go of her hands, which he was crushing with his own.

‘What is it? What’s happening?’ Her voice was anguished.

But she knew. She knew what was happening...what had happened. Knew it because she deserved it... Knew it because suddenly the obstetrician was there, looking down at her. He was about to tell her,I’m so sorry. We did all we could, but it was too late...

Grief convulsed her, possessed her.

And then...

A cry...a thin, frail cry. A baby’s cry...a cry of life...

‘You have a little boy,’ the consultant said. ‘Congratulations.’

Another cry broke the air. Not a baby’s cry—her own. Her face convulsed again, tears suddenly pouring from her eyes, blurring her vision completely.

And then she heard another voice. Vincenzo’s.

Low, and deep, and wrung with emotion.

‘Dio sia ringraziato,’he said.

God be thanked.

Vincenzo shut his eyes.

God be thanked.

It rang in his head, again and again. Relief such as he had never known knifed through him. Then he realised the consultant was speaking again, and made himself open his eyes, listen to what was being said.

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