Page 100 of Secret Baby for my Off-Limits Fiancé
I don’t know how to deal with that.
So, I pretend I don’t notice.
I turn back to the waiting area and sit down, gripping the edge of my seat. Valentino follows, but he keeps a distance, pacing instead of sitting.
We don’t speak.
Not because we don’t have things to say, but because we don’t know how to say them.
***
By the time the doctor finally appears, I feel like I’ve aged a lifetime.
His presence shifts the air in the waiting room, heavy with unspoken words.
He’s older, with silver threading through his dark hair and deep lines carved into his forehead, a roadmap of years spent delivering both hope and heartbreak. His white coat is crisp, but his tired eyes betray him.
I grip the arms of the chair, my pulse hammering. The hum of the fluorescent lights above feels deafening as he exhales.
His hands, steady and practiced, clutch the file in front of him like a lifeline, or a shield.
“Miss Gallo,” he begins, his voice gentle, but edged with something heavier. Something that makes my stomach plummet before he even speaks the words.
Valentino and I stand at the same time. The tension in my body is so tight I feel like I might shatter.
“My name is Dr. Holloway. Some of the results are back from the tests we ran, and we’ve narrowed down on your son’s condition.”
I brace myself.
His voice is steady, but there’s a carefulness to it, a hesitation that makes my chest tighten.
“It’s highly likely that Vincent has aplastic anemia. We’ll need to confirm the diagnosis with the remaining tests in the next few days.”
The words land like stones, heavy and unfamiliar.
I shake my head slightly, searching his face for something, anything, that softens them.
“What, what does that mean?” My voice barely rises above a whisper.
“It means his bone marrow isn’t producing enough blood cells, red, white, or platelets. Bone marrow is like the body’s factory for blood, and right now, that factory isn’t working properly. That’s why he’s been so tired and getting sick more often.”
“What can we do?”
“Treatment depends on the severity, but in Vincent’s case, we need to act quickly. There are a few options, immunosuppressive therapy, blood transfusions, but the best chance for a cure is a bone marrow transplant.”
I blink, my pulse thrumming in my ears. “A transplant?”
“Yes. If we can find a matching donor, his chances improve significantly.”
He pauses, his gaze steady. “Without treatment, survival rates are low. But with the right care, a transplant, if we find a donor, there’s hope. Survival rates can be as high as 80%, especially in younger patients.”
Hope. The word barely registers over the roaring in my head.
My hands tremble as I press them against my lips. My son. My little boy. I should ask more questions and hold myself together, but right now, all I can do is hold on and try not to fall apart.
“I’ll give him mine.”
“It’s not that simple. We need you to get tested for compatibility. Being his mother, chances are high you are compatible, but there is always a chance you aren’t so.” The doctor’s voice is distant, like I’m hearing him through water. “Ideally, we test everyone in the family to find a match. The sooner we can do this, the better.”
