The silence in the hospital hallway weighed more than in the past few days. There was something about that particular floor — the large windows let the sun in, the drawings on the walls tried to color the pain, but they couldn't hide the truth: this was where we fought for our children.
I left Isa and Giulia in the room. The little one was sleeping after the chemotherapy session. Her face was still pale and her eyes heavy, but she was brave. As always.
I walked slowly down to the wing where the support groups met. The hospital psychologist had suggested it. At first, I refused. I wasn't that kind of man. Or at least, I didn't think I was. I always considered myself strong enough to withstand any storm in silence. But having a sick child changes everything. It breaks you in places you did
