Chapter 3
On the third morning, Liv's breathing had become so shallow that the nurses checked on her every fifteen minutes. I hadn't left her side, surviving on hospital coffee and the crackers kind volunteers brought to families like mine—families keeping vigil in the children's ward.
Liv's eyes fluttered open around noon, those beautiful brown eyes that mirrored her father's, now dulled with pain and medication. Her gaze found the smartwatch on her wrist, the one Tobias had given her last Christmas with such fanfare, promising it would help them "stay connected."
"Mommy," she whispered, her voice paper-thin. "Can I call Daddy now? Maybe he'll answer if I use this."
My heart clenched. She'd been asking for him constantly, her faith in his love unwavering despite his silence. "Sweetheart, maybe you should rest—"
"Please." Her small fingers fumbled with the watch's interface, muscle memory guiding her through the steps. "I just want to tell him I love him."
I couldn't deny her. Not now. Not when every breath might be her last.
The call connected, and for a moment, hope bloomed in my chest. Maybe this time—
"Hello?" But it wasn't Tobias's voice that filled the small speaker. It was Celine's, sharp with annoyance. "Who is this?"
Liv's face lit up with desperate hope. "Miss Celine? It's Liv. Is my daddy there? I really need to talk to him."
A pause. Then Celine's voice, dripping with irritation: "Listen, little girl, daddy is busy with important grown-up things and doesn't want to be disturbed by whining. He's having a wonderful time, and your constant calling is ruining it."
I watched my daughter's face crumble, her already pale complexion turning ashen. "But I just wanted to say—"
"I don't care what you wanted to say." Celine's voice was ice-cold. "Stop calling. We're on vacation, and you're being a bother."
The line went dead.
Liv stared at the watch screen, her bottom lip trembling. "Mommy? Did I do something wrong?"
"No, baby. No, you didn't do anything wrong." I gathered her fragile form into my arms, feeling how light she'd become, how her ribs pressed against my chest. "Nothing at all."
But the damage was done. Over the next few hours, I watched something break inside my daughter that had nothing to do with her failing heart. Her already labored breathing became more erratic, and the monitors began beeping with increasing urgency.
"Maybe daddy doesn't love me anymore," she whispered against my shoulder as I held her. "Maybe that's why he won't come."
"That's not true." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. "Daddy loves you so much, sweetheart. Sometimes grown-ups make terrible mistakes, but that doesn't mean he doesn't love you."
She pulled back to look at me, her eyes too knowing for a six-year-old. "Then why won't he come say goodbye?"
I had no answer for that. No words that could explain how a father could choose champagne toasts over his dying daughter's bedside.
As evening approached, Liv grew weaker. The doctors increased her pain medication, their gentle voices and careful touches telling me what their words couldn't: we were running out of time.
"Mommy," Liv said suddenly, her voice gaining a strange clarity that made my blood run cold. "I want to leave Daddy a message. On my watch."
"Liv, maybe you should save your strength—"
"Please." Her small hand gripped mine with surprising force. "I need to tell him something important."
With trembling fingers, she activated the voice recording feature. The red light blinked, capturing what would be her final words to her father.
"Daddy," she began, her voice soft but steady, "I'm going to see the angels now, but I'll wait for you to call me back because I love you so much. I love you more than all the stars in the sky, just like you used to tell me. I hope you're having fun on your trip. Tell Miss Celine I'm sorry for bothering you."
She paused, her breathing becoming more labored. "Mommy says you love me too, even when you can't show it. I believe her. I'll tell Grandpa Robert you said hi when I see him, okay? I love you, Daddy. I love you forever and always."
The recording stopped. Liv smiled at me, that beautiful, trusting smile that had lit up my world for six precious years.
"There," she whispered. "Now he'll know."
She closed her eyes then, her hand still clutching mine, her breathing growing slower and more peaceful. The monitors around us began their final, heartbreaking symphony as my daughter slipped away, still waiting for a call that would never come.
In the silence that followed, I held her still-warm body and felt something inside me die along with her. But something else was born too—a cold, hard resolve that would carry me through what came next.
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