The next day was magic. Anthony took her to a small vineyard, they shared a bottle of local wine, and for the first time in years, Linda felt… seen. Not as a therapist, not as a caregiver, but as a woman. In the haze of wine and the desperate need for human connection, she spent the night at his small apartment.
It was a brief, passionate encounter—a moment of madness in an otherwise disciplined life. The next morning, Anthony drove her to the airport. He begged her to stay, or at least to take his number. He wrote it on a scrap of paper and pressed it into her hand.
As soon as she boarded the plane, Linda crumpled the paper and dropped it into the trash. She felt a wave of shame so intense it made her nauseous. She was going home to her dying husband. That night in Rome had to be buried and forgotten.
When she returned, Mike was weaker, but he seemed happy to see her. She fell back into the routine of caregiving, but a few weeks later, the morning sickness started. At first, she thought it was the stress or a stomach bug, but the feeling persisted.
Mike noticed her paleness. “Linny, you look like you’re about to faint. Go to the doctor. Now.” He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Linda went to the clinic, and an hour later, she sat in her car, staring at the positive test result. She was pregnant.
She walked into the house, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t have to say a word. Mike looked at her, and he knew. He was a smart man, and he knew his own body’s limitations over the last year. He didn’t yell. He didn’t ask for details.
“I’m not angry, Linda,” he said softly, taking her hand. “I’m actually glad. I’m glad you’ll have someone when I’m gone.”
