The clock showed just after eight in the morning when I parked the car at the international arrivals section of the airport. The sky was still overcast, as if the outside world shared my state of mind: cloudy, heavy. The doctor's words from the previous night kept echoing in my head. "Leukemia." The kind of diagnosis that seems to pull the ground out from under you. Again. The same disease that took my wife and now threatened my daughter.
I gripped the steering wheel tightly and took a deep breath. I had to be strong. For Giulia. For Isabella, who slept with her at the hospital that night like a guardian angel. And now, for Helena's parents. They deserved to know.
I saw Roberto and Lourdes as soon as they walked through the automatic doors of the terminal. They looked practically the sam
