The men entered the room. Vidal strode straight to his wife and took her in his arms, stroking her hair and trying to comfort her.
“I don’t want to do this,” she whispered.
“I didn’t want this for you. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, querida.”
Hard sobs destroyed her words, so he just cuddled her, trying to provide her some comfort.
Finally, Señora Velázquez approached with a moistened in her hand.
“One moment please, Señora,” Vidal said. Tilting his wife’s tear-stained face up to his, he looked deep into her eyes.
“I love you, Rosalind,” he told her in English, smoothing a loose hair away from her face.
“Te amo, Vidal.”
The couple kissed once, tenderly, their lips clinging as though to delay the moment.
Another contraction gripped Rosalind’s flesh, where it pressed against Vidal.
“Señ
