Tomas suddenly tightened the hand I was holding.
“Ma…” he whispered weakly.
I burst into tears.
Alaina cried.
Even the nurse cried.
“Tomas… my love… don’t talk…” I said softly.
But he looked at Alaina—weak but clear.
“Anak… I know already. I heard you two…”
“But… I’m not angry. I love your mother. And I love you too.”
Alaina’s shoulders dropped as she sobbed.
“I’m sorry… Tito… I’m so sorry…”
Tomas forced a small smile despite the bandage on his head.
“I just want… the two of you to stay whole. That’s all… nothing else.”
The following week, Alaina came every day to watch over him.
She handed him water.
She fixed his blankets.
She walked with the nurse to release her stress.
And one day, while she was helping Tomas take his medicine, he spoke softly:
“Call me… Papa. Even just once.”
The girl broke into tears.
“Papa…”
And from that moment on, she never used the word “Tito” again.
Months passed. Tomas healed.
Alaina was electrified with guilt, but she didn’t waste the second chance she was given.
They grew closer—closer than before.
They talked more often.
And one day, I was surprised to see the two of them in the garage, working together.
“Papa… teach me how to fix a brake… the right way.”
Tomas laughed and replied,
“Just don’t break it again, okay, anak?”
And there, in that simple joke, the nightmare finally ended—
and a more genuine family began.