It had been 147 days since Andrea left.
Doc counted them in the scratch of his pen across patient
charts, in the clicks of the nanny’s shoes down the hallway, in the flickers of
the baby monitor that reminded him Anthony and Caterina were asleep—but Andrea
was still gone.
The note she left wasn’t long. Just a few lines, hastily
scrawled and barely legible, as if she couldn’t bear to let the words sit too
long on the page:
“Caterina and Anthony are safe here with you. I just need
time. Please don’t look for me.”
But Doc looked.
The moment he read those words, standing in the nursery with
Anthony still warm in his arms, he knew she wasn’t just gone—she was running.
From him. From herself. Maybe from something even she couldn’t name.
He started by calling Kay. She didn’t know much, but her
voice cracked when she said, “She called from an international number.
That’s all I’ve got. I'm sorry.”
Then came the PIs. Not one, but three firms. Discreet,
expensive, and thorough. They combed through flight records, financial
statements, security footage at airports. He gave them everything—her passport
number, the last texts she sent, even the name of the midwife she’d used for
Caterina’s birth.
Weeks passed. Then months.
He learned quickly how much you could spend and still have
nothing to show for it.
Every lead was a dead end. A woman matching Andrea’s
description was spotted in Portugal—nope. Another in the south of France—wrong
height. There was one in Buenos Aires, another in Hanoi. Doc paid to
investigate every single one. None of them were her.
He didn’t tell Anthony much. At two years and a half years old,
he still babbled when he asked, “Where’s Mama?” but the ache in his voice was
growing. And every time Doc heard it, it was like a blade twisted in his gut.
Caterina, at just over a year old, barely knew Andy.
He kept her pillow on the bed, her robe on the hook, her
scent in the room. He could still smell her sometimes, when the light shifted
just right at the end of the day.
The only way he stayed sane was through ritual: morning
coffee at 6, Anthony’s daycare at 8, surgeries by 9. Joe and the nannies took
care of Caterina as she was too young for day care. He ran. He lifted weights.
He kept his body in motion to stop his mind from collapsing.
But every night, the loneliness came roaring in like a tide.
The Breakthrough
It was the nanny who finally found the clue that cracked it
open.
She was organizing Anthony’s memory box—tiny socks, hospital
bracelets, one of Andrea’s ultrasound printouts—and she found a folded envelope
wedged in the binding of a parenting journal. Inside was an old map of a
coastal town in the Mediterranean. There was a red circle around a small island
village.
She ran into the living room, breathless. “Doc… I think this
is it.”
He stared at the map for a long time, silent.
Within hours, he had two investigators rerouted. Within a
week, one called.
“I think we found her,” the man said. “She checked into a
clinic under a fake name. She gave birth—about six weeks ago.”
Doc’s chest went hollow. His knees nearly gave out.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
“She’s… alive. And she’s alone.”
The Flight
Doc didn’t hesitate. He chartered a flight the next morning.
The nanny agreed to stay with Anthony and Caterina. She packed him a travel bag
and whispered, “Bring her home. And bring yourself home, too.”
On the plane, Doc stared at the sea through the window and
practiced what he might say. But nothing came out right.
You left. I understand. I was furious. I
was scared. I still love you. I never stopped.
When he landed, he took a small ferry to the island—wind
rough, sky overcast. The streets were cobbled and steep, and the village seemed
stuck in time. But when he reached the address, the little white house with
clay shingles and ivy-covered windows, he knew.
He stood at the gate and exhaled.
A cry sounded through an open window—a baby.
Then, Andrea stepped out onto the porch.
She saw him. Froze. Her hands tightened around the edge of
the doorframe like she might collapse.
Doc’s throat worked, but nothing came out at first. So he
just said her name, like a prayer.
“Andrea.”
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