“I’ll try.”
He took out a handkerchief and wiped her cheek—Molly hadn’t even realized she was crying.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Molly. I promise.”
The surgery was a success. That’s what the doctors said after four hours that Molly spent in the hallway, clenching her hands so tightly her nails dug into her palms. David sat beside her in silence, just being there, and somehow, that helped.
“She’s going to live,” the surgeon said, pulling off his mask. “A few more days in the ICU, then a regular room. It’ll take a month or two to recover. But she’s going to live.”
Molly didn’t remember ending up in David’s arms, crying into his shirt as he stroked her hair and murmured comforting words. She only remembered the feeling, huge and bright like a flash of light, that everything really was going to be okay.
The next few weeks were strange. David came every day, not just to the hospital, but to the apartment to check on Molly. He brought food, because she kept forgetting to eat. He drove her to and from school. He made sure she got at least some sleep. He did all the things a parent was supposed to do.
“Why are you doing this?” Molly asked one day. They were in his car, on the way back from the hospital. Her mom was in a regular room now, weak but alive, and even smiling.
“Because I have to. Because I want to. Take your pick.”
“What about your wife?”
He was silent. Molly saw his jaw tighten, his hands grip the steering wheel.
“With my wife… it’s complicated.”
“She’s a bad person.”
“Molly… I know kids aren’t supposed to talk about adults that way.”
“But she is. She hurt Mom, and she’s hurting you, too. I can see it.”
David looked at her, and there was something in his eyes she couldn’t read. Surprise? Gratitude? Sadness?
“You’re a smart kid,” he said finally. “Too smart for your age.”
“That’s what my mom says.”
“Your mom’s right.”
They got home, and Molly went to do her homework while David stayed in the car. She watched from the window as he sat there, motionless, staring straight ahead. Then he took out his phone, had a conversation with someone, and hung up. His face had a look Molly had never seen before. Determined.
A week later, he came to the hospital with a huge bouquet of white flowers. Vera was already sitting up in bed, still pale, but alive, real. She looked at the flowers, then at him, and something passed between them—a silent conversation that Molly didn’t understand but could feel.
“David! Wait! Let me talk!”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand.
“I filed for divorce. From Kira. Three days ago.”
Molly held her breath. Vera stared at him, her eyes wide.
“Why?”
“Because she’s… not who I want to be with. Not who I love. I’ve known it for a long time, I was just afraid to admit it. Afraid to admit to myself that I’d made a mistake, that I’d chosen the wrong person, that this whole time…” He trailed off.
Vera kept looking at him, and there were tears in her eyes—not sad tears, but something else.
“And now?” she asked softly.
“And now I want to be with you. If you’ll let me. If you’ll give me a chance.”
Molly sat on a chair by the door, trying not to breathe. It was just like the movies—the kind her mom loved to watch in the evenings, with beautiful people and happy endings.
“David,” Vera said, her voice trembling. “I don’t… You know it’s not about the money, right? That I don’t need it?”
“I know. That’s exactly why I want to be with you. Because you don’t need it. Because you see me, not my money. Because your daughter crawled into freezing water for a stranger, and that says more about you than any words ever could.”
“She didn’t jump, she crawled,” Vera corrected automatically.
“Details.”
They looked at each other, and Molly saw something happening between them. Something big and important that had been there before, hidden, but was now finally coming out into the open.
“Yes,” Vera said. “Okay. We can try.”
David’s divorce was ugly. Kira wasn’t going to let him go easily. Molly caught snippets of conversations and saw headlines online (she’d learned to search for things herself, since the adults tried to keep it from her). “Millionaire’s Messy Divorce.” “Wife Accuses Husband of Infidelity.” “Who Is the Woman He Left Everything For?”
Kira gave interviews. Molly found one on YouTube. She was beautiful, cold, in a black dress. She said her husband had betrayed her, traded her for some nurse, that the world was unfair. But her eyes were the same as always—empty, calculating. And Molly understood: she wasn’t suffering. She was angry because she had lost.
“Don’t watch that,” Vera said, looking over her shoulder. “It’s garbage.”
“I know. But it’s interesting.”
“Interesting how people can be so cruel?”
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