Chapter 7 - THE WISH SOFIA NEVER GOT TO MAKE
Clara found me in Sofia’s room.
The report lay on the floor.
I sat beside the bed.
She did not pick up the paper immediately.
Did not say she was sorry.
She sat beside me.
That was all.
For ten minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then I said:
“I should have checked.”
Clara looked at me.
“What?”
“Every medication.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I had people.”
“You had a brother you trusted.”
“I should have—”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
I looked at her.
Clara continued.
“You don’t get to turn Dante’s crime into another reason to punish yourself.”
I laughed bitterly.
“That sounds convenient.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe if I had read the invoices—”
“You were sleeping in hospital chairs.”
I looked away.
“Maybe if I had asked different questions.”
“Maybe.”
That stopped me.
She did not rescue me with certainty.
Good.
“Maybe something could have been noticed.”
Her voice softened.
“But maybe not.”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t know how to live with maybe.”
“Yes, you do.”
“How?”
“You already have seven years.”
I stared.
Clara continued.
“You thought nothing could have changed Sofia’s ending.”
“Yes.”
“Now you know something might have.”
My throat tightened.
“That does not mean you caused it.”
Silence.
Then I looked at the three coins on Sofia’s dresser.
Ellie had returned two.
Kept one.
“She used to get three wishes.”
“I know.”
“I always asked before her birthday.”
Clara listened.
“The last year she only used two.”
“What were they?”
“Pancakes.”
Clara smiled faintly.
“And?”
“A puppy.”
“Did she get one?”
“No.”
“Vincent.”
“She was immunocompromised.”
“Fair.”
I almost smiled.
“What was the third?”
“She said she was saving it.”
“For what?”
“I never found out.”
That had haunted me.
One unused wish.
A future she assumed existed.
Clara looked at the coins.
“Maybe she didn’t need it yet.”
“She died.”
“I know.”
“That’s the point.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“Maybe the point is she believed there would be another day to ask.”
I started crying.
It came suddenly.
Ugly.
No control.
Clara stayed.
Did not touch me until I reached for her hand.
Then she held it.
That was the beginning of something neither of us named for months.
Not romance yet.
Trust.
Different.
Harder.
Clara continued school.
She earned top marks.
I attended nothing unless invited.
That became a rule.
A useful one.
Ellie visited Greystone sometimes.
Marco had become Uncle Marco to her despite my objections.
She called Rebecca “Scary Becky,” which Rebecca secretly loved.
The estate changed.
Staff grievance procedures moved outside household management.
No family member controlled employee housing alone.
Invoices above modest thresholds required dual review.
Not because policies create kindness.
Because unchecked power creates opportunities for cruelty.
The Moretti Children’s Cancer Foundation reopened under a new name:
The Sofia Moretti Pediatric Care Trust.
Independent board.
Public audit history.
A statement on its website explained the origin of the contaminated funds and the restitution process.
Some donors left.
Others stayed.
I contributed enough to replace every dollar tied to fraud.
Privately.
The board still disclosed it.
Transparency felt uncomfortable.
Good.
Then came Clara’s graduation.
Associate degree first.
Ellie was five.
She wore a yellow dress and screamed:
“MOMMY!”
from the auditorium.
Everyone laughed.
I stood in the back.
Clara saw me.
Afterward she walked over.
“You came.”
“You invited me.”
“Yes.”
“I’m learning.”
She smiled.
Ellie ran between us.
“Picture!”
Clara handed her phone to Rebecca.
We stood.
I kept space.
Ellie grabbed my hand and pulled me closer.
“Family picture.”
Clara froze.
I did too.
Ellie looked annoyed.
“Come.”
Children are impatient with adult complications.
We moved closer.
Rebecca took the photo.
Later I stared at it too long.
Clara noticed.
“Don’t make it more than it is.”
“What is it?”
“A picture.”
“Right.”
Three months later, I asked her to dinner.
Not at Greystone.
Not through an assistant.
I called.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
Silence.
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“That is suspiciously simple.”
“I practiced.”
She laughed.
Then:
“Yes.”
Our first date was at a small Italian restaurant in Queens where nobody recognized me until dessert.
Clara paid the tip.
I objected.
She ignored me.
We talked about everything except Sofia for the first hour.
That mattered.
Clara liked old movies.
Hated expensive sparkling water.
Wanted a bachelor’s degree.
Had once dreamed of becoming a forensic accountant.
“That seems oddly specific.”
“I like finding where numbers lie.”
I smiled.
“Apparently.”
She looked at me.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What did you want before being Vincent Moretti became a full-time job?”
I had no answer.
That frightened me more than most guns.
Eventually:
“To design buildings.”
She stared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I like structures.”
“That explains a lot.”
“Insulting.”
“Accurate.”
We dated slowly.
Ellie knew immediately.
Children always do.
She asked Clara:
“You kissing Mr. Vincent?”
Clara nearly choked.
I left the room.
Cowardice can be strategic.
A year passed.
Then two.
Clara completed her bachelor’s degree.
Started work with a forensic accounting firm specializing in nonprofit and healthcare fraud.
The irony was almost offensive.
She loved it.
Ellie started school.
No longer called me Mr. Vincent every time.
Sometimes simply Vincent.
Once Grandpa by accident.
We all froze.
She corrected:
“Not Grandpa.”
I laughed.
“Definitely not.”
Clara laughed harder.
Then, one December eighteenth, we returned to Sofia’s room together.
Not for mourning alone.
Ellie came carrying the final gold coin.
She was six.
She placed it in my hand.
“I know wish.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“My third wish.”
Clara watched.
Ellie pointed toward me.
“I wish you don’t be sad by yourself anymore.”
My chest tightened.
“Ellie—”
“That my wish.”
I looked at Clara.
Her eyes filled.
Then I crouched.
“Can I tell you something about wishes?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes you can’t make them happen for other people.”
Ellie frowned.
“That bad rule.”
“Probably.”
“But.”
I looked at Clara.
“Sometimes you can ask whether they want help.”
Ellie thought.
Then looked at her mother.
“Mommy?”
Clara laughed through tears.
“I think he’s asking me.”
I stood.
“Am I?”
She looked at me.
“Yes.”
For the first time, the anniversary of Sofia’s death became something other than a locked room.
Not less sad.
May you like
Just less alone.
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