CHAPTER 237: WILL YOU COME HOME WITH ME

In the hallway outside, Ethan stood with his phone to his ear, coordinating the next burden — the funeral. He had already begun the calls.

Maria’s family had been difficult to reach. Finally, her mother answered. There was a pause on the other end when he told her the news.

Then: a soft gasp, and a wail. "No... no, please no," her mother sobbed. "My baby—"

A moment later, a man’s voice thundered through the receiver. "You dare cry for her now? That disgrace! That whore! She brought shame on this family!"

"Please, Hector," the woman whispered faintly. "Let us bury her properly—"

"She’s not our daughter," the man barked. "She died the moment she ran away from her husband. Let them do what they want. I don’t want her name spoken in this house again."

And then — a click.

The line went dead.

Ethan lowered the phone slowly, his stomach turning. He looked toward the closed morgue doors, his heart heavy. She never stood a chance, he thought. Not with a father like that. Not without forgiveness in life.

He stepped back toward the waiting room, the weight of too many people’s grief pressing down.

This funeral would not be for Maria’s family. It would be for those who truly knew her.

For Mara. For Isabella. For the love that stayed — even when everything else fell apart.

—

The quiet of the pediatric ward was broken by the soft, heart-wrenching cries of a child.

Isabella sat curled on the corridor floor, her tiny body shaking with sobs, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if trying to keep from falling apart completely. Her cries weren’t loud — they were fragile, broken, desperate... the kind that reached into the bones of anyone who heard them.

Three nurses stood nearby, watching with helpless eyes, afraid to get too close.

"We can’t touch her," one whispered. "Last time we tried, she seized again."

"We need to calm her down before she hyperventilates."

"She’s terrified... poor thing just lost her mother."

They crouched low, speaking in soft, soothing tones, hoping their voices alone could bring the girl some comfort. But Isabella wouldn’t budge. She rocked slowly back and forth, her face blotchy from tears, her wide, frightened eyes darting to every movement like a wounded animal cornered in the wild.

Then, Mara stepped off the elevator.

She and Rafael had just returned from the morgue, the weight of grief still hanging on their shoulders like wet clothes. But when Mara saw the small figure sobbing in the hallway, her breath caught.

Isabella. No one had told her the child was awake. She didn’t wait for explanations.

She didn’t need them.

Ignoring the nurses’ outstretched hands, ignoring their warning calls of "Please, wait — it’s not safe!", Mara crossed the hallway in a few quick steps.

She knelt down slowly in front of the child, tears already blurring her vision. "Sweetheart..." she whispered, her voice trembling.

Isabella looked up, and for a split second, their eyes locked.

She had Maria’s eyes. That soft, golden-brown that shimmered even through tears. Eyes that used to look at Mara with fierce loyalty and love. Now, they were mirrored in her daughter’s face, only filled with fear and grief far too big for such a small girl to carry.

Mara didn’t hesitate. She reached out and gently pulled Isabella into her arms. The nurses gasped softly, bracing for another seizure. But it didn’t come.

Isabella sobbed harder at first, fists clutching Mara’s blouse, soaking it with tears. But her breathing slowed gradually, her cries softening into hiccups. Her small hands curled into Mara’s chest as if afraid to ever let go again.

Mara stroked her hair, whispering against her temple. "Will you go home with me? Should we get out of here, baby?"

Isabella didn’t answer — she was too young to understand the question fully. But her head nodded slightly against Mara’s shoulder, and that was enough.

"Good," Mara whispered. "Let’s get out of here."

She stood up with Isabella in her arms, the child’s face buried in her neck, and turned to the nurses. "She needs one last check before we leave. I’ll stay with her."

The nurses stepped aside, stunned into silence. One of them wiped a tear from her own cheek.

They guided Mara back to Isabella’s hospital bed. Once settled, Mara sat beside her, still holding her hand, still whispering calming words until the little girl’s breathing eased completely into sleep.

Rafael stood in the doorway, watching.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. After a moment, he stepped back into the hall, pulled out his phone, and called Ethan.

"How is the arrangement going?" he said. "Good," Ethan replied quietly. "I’m nearly done here. Burial’s being arranged. But... there’s no family on their side. Maria’s parents—"

"I know," Rafael interrupted.

—

She sat in the corner of the hospital room, watching Isabella sleep peacefully at last. The little girl was curled against the pillow, her small hand resting on the blanket where Mara had tucked her in. A soft flush had returned to her cheeks, her breathing steady. She looked like any child would — safe, unaware of the storm that had stolen her mother hours ago.

Mara exhaled quietly, trying not to disturb her.

Then she realized her phone had been off the entire day. Her heart jumped at the thought of the twins, of Steve, of home.

She stepped into the hallway and approached the nearest nurse.

"Could I borrow your phone, just for a minute?" she asked gently. The nurse nodded and handed it over without question. Mara dialed Stefan’s number, and he picked up on the second ring.

"Stef?" His voice was alert, concerned. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," she said softly. "I just... needed to hear their voice."

Stefan didn’t hesitate. "Hold on." A few seconds later, the screen lit up with the soft glow of a video call. Stefan flipped the camera to show the twin, Andrew, and Audrey fast asleep in their shared bed, arms flung across the blankets, peaceful and unaware of the day’s heaviness.

Mara’s eyes welled with tears again, but this time it wasn’t from sorrow. Her heart calmed the moment she saw them breathing steadily, safe in the soft light of home.

"Thank you," she whispered. "They’re fine," Stefan said, turning the camera back to himself. "And Steve?" Mara asked. "He’s okay?"

"Actually..." Stefan grinned. "Someone brought him flowers."

Mara blinked. "Flowers?" "Yup. Hand-delivered. Might be an admirer," Stefan teased, lifting his brows.

Mara gave a small, tired smile. "Poor Steve."

Stefan leaned back into the frame. "We all saw the news. I know you won’t be able to walk away."

Mara’s face shifted — she tried to speak, but he beat her to it. "I know you won’t be able to leave her daughter behind. You don’t have a good heart, baby sis." Mara looked away, overcome for a moment.

"Just do what you have to do," Stefan continued, his voice softening. "Steve and the boys will be in good hands until you get back. And... when you’re ready, we’ll welcome our newest Shepherd."

Mara laughed quietly, wiping a tear. "Thank you," she whispered. "Get some sleep," Stefan said. "You’ll need it."

The call ended, and Mara stood for a moment in the dim hallway, staring at the quiet phone in her hand. Then she returned to Isabella’s room.

She sat in the chair beside the bed, took the child’s hand again, and whispered, "You’re not alone, little one. You’re home now. Even if we’re not there yet."

She leaned her head back against the chair, never letting go of her hand, and slowly drifted into a light, aching sleep — one ear tuned to every breath Isabella took, her heart still guarding what Maria had left behind.

And for the first time since the courthouse, the silence didn’t feel so lonely.