The flight attendant spoke first. “Mr. Mancelli, this passenger is a pediatric nurse. Perhaps I can.” Alessandro looked up. His dark eyes met Mariana’s, and the sensation was so intense that she had to swallow hard to keep from backing away.
“Nurse,” he said in a low, grave voice. “Yes,” Mariana replied, trying to sound confident. “I’m a pediatrician. That crying is hunger, and he’s refusing the bottle. I know it.” Frustration crept into her tone.
She won’t accept anything. I’ve tried everything. Mariana watched the baby, red from the effort, almost trembling, and then she felt something that pierced her completely. That position, that sound, that lost look were too much like her daughter.
Some babies don’t accept bottles and were breastfed, she explained cautiously. He was. Alessandro hesitated. A second. Two. His mother died two months ago. Mariana felt a blow to her chest.
Pain acknowledging pain. Then, she whispered, “Look for something you no longer have.” Alessandro understood immediately. His eyes opened slightly, incredulous. Mariana felt her heart pounding. What was she about to offer?
What was she about to do? But Alessio cried even harder, and that was enough. “Mr. Mancelli, I’m still producing milk.” Mariana lowered her gaze, ashamed. “I lost my daughter six months ago.”
My body didn’t understand. The silence that followed seemed to stop time. Alandro looked at her as if the world had just shattered. “Are you offering yourself?” His voice became a dangerous whisper.
Mariana swallowed. “If you’ll allow me, I can try.” The entire first class fell into absolute silence. No one moved, no one breathed. Alessandro seemed to be internally torn between his pride, his fear, his pain, and his son’s silent plea.
Finally, his voice was firm. The bathroom. He stood up with the baby in his arms. There’s more privacy. Mariana followed him, trembling, with a bodyguard behind her. The bathroom was small and elegant.
Alessandro stood in the doorway. For the first time since she’d seen him, she hesitated. “If you need anything, I’ll be here,” he said with a strange mix of toughness and vulnerability. Mariana opened her arms to receive Alessandro.
When she touched him, he stopped crying for a moment, as if he recognized something in her warmth. When the door closed, Mariana felt a knot in her stomach. She unbuttoned her blouse with trembling hands, guided only by instinct and the memory of having done this so many times with Emma.
After what felt like an eternity, Alexio found what he was looking for and clung to it. His crying subsided, turning into small sighs of relief. Mariana couldn’t hold back her tears. “It’s okay, little one.”
Are you okay? Behind the door, Alessandro clenched his fists tightly. The absence of tears was both a relief and a threat. He had let a stranger into the most vulnerable part of his life.
Fifteen minutes later, Mariana came out with the baby asleep on her chest. And Alessandro, seeing his son at peace for the first time since Bianca’s death, felt something break inside him.
“He slept and ate well,” Mariana said softly. Alessandro stopped her when she tried to hand him the baby. “Your name,” he demanded, but gently. “Mariana. Mariana Torres.” He nodded slowly. “I owe you something, Mariana.”
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