Marcus couldn’t speak. He just nodded, tears welling in his eyes.
“Come with me,” Dante commanded, already walking toward the double doors of the ER. “I need the complete history of her seizures. Now.”
I stood there watching them walk away. Marcus turned once, locking eyes with me, seeking pity, seeking some sign of the Bernice who used to beg for his love. I turned my back on him. I didn’t owe him a single glance.
Dante personally handled Immani’s case. He worked for hours, consulting other specialists, ordering advanced scans. I knew he was doing it not for Marcus, but in spite of him. Marcus tried to approach Dante multiple times in the hallways, tried to apologize, tried to make small talk, but Dante maintained an impeccable, frigid professional distance.
On the fourth day, Dante made a crucial discovery that other specialists had missed for years.
“Ma,” he called me from his office, his voice excited. “I found it. Immani has a small cortical malformation in her temporal lobe. It’s the scar tissue causing the intractable seizures. It’s operable. If we do this, the seizures could stop completely.”
“That is wonderful, Dante,” I said, my heart swelling with pride. “Are you going to tell him?”
There was a long pause on the line. “Yes. Because it’s the right thing to do as a physician.”
That night, Dante summoned Marcus to his private office. He showed him the scans, explained the finding in simple terms, detailed the operation, and cited the high chances of a complete cure. Marcus listened in silence, tears streaming down his face.
When Dante finished, Marcus looked up, completely broken. “Why? Why are you doing this, Dante? After everything I did to you, to your mother… why do you care about saving my daughter?”
Dante stared at him, looking straight through him.
