Julian's POV
"My daughter is dead."
The words hung in the sterile air of the medical den. I'd been repeating them for hours, trying to make them feel real. Each time I said them, the knife twisted deeper in my chest.
Natalie sat beside my bed, her hand on mine. The touch that once brought comfort now felt empty.
"Julian, you need to rest," she said, her voice soft with concern. "The doctor said—"
"I don't care what the doctor said." I pulled my hand away. "My daughter has been dead for five years, and I only just learned the truth."
Five years. Five years of birthdays missed. Five years of drawings ignored. Five years of a little voice calling "Daddy" while I pretended not to hear.
"It wasn't your fault," Natalie insisted. "You didn't know."
I turned to look at her, really look at her. For the first time, I wondered why I had always found comfort in her words. They were hollow, meaningless platitudes that couldn't touch the depths of my guilt.
