All Chapters of The Fathers of My Child?: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

#Joel’s POV#The villa feels bigger without her. The echo of my shoes against the floor follows me all the way from the front door into the living room, like it’s reminding me I’m walking alone. I drop my coat over the arm of the couch and sink into it, letting my head rest against the back cushion.I miss her already.It’s stupid—we were just at the station not even an hour ago—but the minute she disappeared behind those train doors, it felt like someone turned down the volume on the whole world. Boston’s not the moon. She’s not gone forever. But knowing she’s somewhere else, living hours away from me for the next stretch of time, is enough to put a schtick in my chest.I close my eyes for a second. I should be at the office, but the company’s on fire right now and walking into that mess would only pour gasoline on it. The board wants answers, numbers, miracles. I’ve got nothing but the scraps of good news that I’m holding on to for dear life; the New York villa is mine, finally, and

#Joel’s POV#Two weeks without her feels like two months. Maybe two years. Every morning starts with me checking my phone before I even get out of bed, sending her a message just to ask how she’s doing, if she’s eaten, what time her appointment is. Every night ends with me doing the same, even if she doesn’t answer right away. I don’t care. I want her to know I’m here.Right now, I’m in the front garden, with my sleeves rolled up and dirt under my nails, working on the garden bed I’ve been building for her. Not some flimsy, throw-some-flowers-in kind of bed, but something solid and wide enough for a row of roses, sturdy enough to last years. I’ve been out here every day since she left, measuring, digging, hammering, sanding. And I still keep wondering if she’ll like it.“Pass me that trowel,” I say to Marcos, one of the guards. He hands it over, his face shaded under his cap.“You think she’ll like this, right?” I ask, not really looking at him because I don’t want to see pity. Marco

#Joel’s POV#The sky is bleeding into gold by the time the wheels kiss the runway. Boston’s air feels different the moment I step out; it's colder, cleaner, and it stings a little when I breathe in too fast. My head is pounding from a hangover that has less to do with alcohol and more to do with the restless, choppy hours of the night before. Jersey delayed me with a hundred pointless signatures and “urgent” calls, and every minute I sat there was another minute Dorothy was here, without me.The attendants are already lined up when I come down the stairs from the jet, their polite smiles like clockwork. One bows slightly, taking my carry-on; another greets me by name, voice bright with the kind of rehearsed enthusiasm I used to expect. I barely look at them. My eyes flick past their faces to the edge of the tarmac where the horizon is catching fire.Boston’s sunrise isn’t like Jersey’s. There’s something softer about it, as if the light knows how to move slow here, how to spill into t

#Joel’s POV#“I can’t leave her here, Languini,” I tell him as soon as I answer, my voice coming out harsher than I mean it to. “You want to talk, we talk now. I’m not walking out of this clinic while she’s in that bed.”On the other end, the old man clears his throat, calm as ever. “Mr. Hernandez, there are things that should be discussed in person, not over a call.”“I don’t care. If it’s important, you can say it right now. Unless you expect me to believe I should leave my wife after two weeks of not seeing her.” My fingers are tightening around the phone, and I force myself to exhale slowly. “Either talk or I hang up.”There’s a long pause. I already feel my chest tightening with the kind of fear that doesn’t come from deals going bad… it’s deeper.I look around the hallway outside her room. A nurse passes, giving me a polite nod. My pulse is pounding in my ears. “Fine,” I mutter. “Give me five minutes.”I make my way to the cafeteria, pushing through the double doors into a wave

#Joel’s POV#Dr. Avery’s smile is small, professional, but softer than most days. “You’ve done well, Dorothy,” she says, checking the clipboard one last time before sliding it into the wall rack. “Stitches are holding. No signs of infection. Keep following the medication schedule, avoid unnecessary strain, and no skipping meals.”Joel is standing beside the bed, one hand resting on the railing, the other holding the discharge folder like he’s guarding state secrets. His jaw is tight. He’s been like that since that phone call with Mr. Languini, and no matter how many times I’ve asked him if everything is alright, he’s given me that same calm, too-even tone that makes my suspicion itch.Dr. Avery glances at Joel. “She needs as much rest as you can make her take, Mr. Hernandez. No long hours, no sudden travel.”Joel’s mouth ticks in the corner, like he almost smiled, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Understood.”An hour later, we’re walking out of the clinic. I thought we’d be heading to