Chapter Nine: When the Sky Breaks Open
2452 Words
POV: Juliana Alejandro
It had been almost one full month since Nacho started his treatment in Guadalajara.
The first week had been filled with cautious hope. Tía Rosa had called every night with soft updates. Nacho had smiled, had eaten a little, had drawn pictures of superheroes on the hospital wall. Juliana had slept better than she had in months.
For a while, she believed the worst was behind them.
Until Thursday morning.
It was 5:42 a.m. in Brighton when her phone rang. She recognized the number instantly, her aunt’s. Juliana reached for it blindly, still half-asleep, but something in her chest told her not to ignore it.
She sat up in bed.
“Hola, Tía?” she whispered.
There was no answer at first. Just the sound of muffled breathing.
Then her aunt’s voice came through, tight and breaking.
“Julianita… I don’t know what’s happening. Something is wrong with Nachito.”
Juliana froze. “What? What do you mean?”
“He started vomiting blood last night. He’s so weak. The doctors say the cancer may have reached his bone marrow. They say we need to get him to another hospital. A specialist hospital.”
Juliana gripped the bedsheet with one hand, pressing the phone to her ear.
“Where?” she asked. “Where do they want to send him?”
“They said maybe London. Maybe India. Maybe somewhere in the United States. But we don’t have the money. We don’t have the connections. I… I don’t know what to do.”
Juliana couldn’t breathe.
Her vision blurred.
She felt the room tilt around her.
“Juliana?” her aunt’s voice quivered. “Are you there?”
“I’m here,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m here.”
That morning, she didn’t go to class.
She couldn’t.
She curled up on the edge of her bed, phone pressed to her chest, and stared at the wall. Her suitcase still sat by the corner, half-unpacked since the semester began. A folded picture of Nacho in a dinosaur hoodie peeked out from her bookshelf.
She cried. Not with noise. Not with sobs.
She cried in a way that made her feel hollow.
Like someone had scooped out the inside of her and left her to echo.
Three days passed.
She didn’t return calls. She didn’t answer Amina’s knocks. She barely ate.
Her textbooks sat untouched. Her alarm went off and was silenced without a glance. She sent no email to her professors. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for extension forms or explain that her five-year-old son might be dying on the other side of the world.
On the fourth day, someone knocked again.
She didn’t move.
A pause. Then the knock came again.
Firmer. Familiar.
Then a voice. Low, careful, uncertain.
“Juliana?”
Her heart skipped.
She pulled herself upright and wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweater.
She opened the door slowly.
Leonardo stood in the hallway, holding a folder in one hand, his brow furrowed with concern.
“I haven’t seen you in class,” he said gently.
Juliana blinked back the tears already forming again.
He looked down at her. “You look… like you haven’t slept.”
“I haven’t,” she whispered.
His face softened further. “Can I come in?”
She hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
He entered quietly, glancing around the small room like he didn’t want to intrude.
She closed the door behind him.
There was a long silence between them before she spoke.
“It’s Nacho,” she said. “My son.”
Leonardo turned toward her, his posture stiffening.
“What happened?”
“They said his condition has worsened. He’s not responding well. They think the cancer’s spreading. He might need to be transferred to a better hospital. Somewhere abroad. Maybe in the UK. Maybe India. Maybe the U.S.”
Leonardo didn’t say anything for a long moment.
Then he stepped closer.
“What’s the hospital saying?”
“They gave my aunt a list. A few places. One in London. One in Boston. One in New Delhi. But we can’t afford it. Not the travel. Not the specialist care. Not anything.”
Her voice cracked again.
“I don’t know how to do this anymore. I’ve failed him.”
“No,” Leonardo said quietly. “You haven’t.”
She looked up at him, stunned.
He sighed and set the folder down on her desk.
“Juliana,” he said, “is there anything else I don’t know? Please. I’m asking now, and I’m asking kindly. I want to help. But I can’t keep finding out things through pain.”
She swallowed hard.
“I’ve told you everything now,” she said. “I swear. No more lies.”
He nodded slowly.
“I believe you.”
It was only a whisper.
But she felt it like a thunderclap.
“I’ve seen programs,” he continued. “There’s a pediatric oncology project in Manchester. My late wife… she was part of the board that supported its funding. They specialize in rare and aggressive cancers. If Nacho qualifies, it could give him a better chance.”
Juliana could barely find her voice.
“Manchester?”
Leonardo nodded. “I know a few people. I can call them. But we’d need to get him here quickly.”
Juliana sat down slowly.
“But the cost… I can’t ask you for that again.”
“You didn’t ask last time,” he said. “I gave it.”
She looked up, tears in her eyes.
“Why are you doing this?”
Leonardo paused, then sat beside her, not touching her, just near enough that she felt the warmth of his presence.
“Because I know what it feels like to sit helplessly beside someone you love. And I know what regret sounds like when it’s too late to do anything.”
Juliana lowered her head, a sob escaping her lips.
He didn’t move to hold her.
But he stayed.
And sometimes, that was more than enough.
Two days later, the papers were arranged.
Leonardo made the calls. He explained Nacho’s condition. The hospital in Manchester reviewed the documents, ran a remote consultation with the physicians in Guadalajara, and offered a conditional approval, if Nacho could be transported safely, he’d be admitted into the trial program.
Juliana booked the soonest available flight home.
Leonardo booked one, too.
She stared at him when he told her.
“You’re coming?”
“Of course,” he said. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”
Something inside her cracked again.
But this time, it wasn’t pain.
It was gratitude.
They didn’t talk much on the flight.
Juliana sat by the window, her hands clutched around the rosary her mother once gave her. She mouthed silent prayers the entire journey.
Leonardo slept lightly beside her, arms folded, head tilted just enough to show the wear in his shoulders.
In that moment, she didn’t see a professor.
She didn’t see the man who once walked away from her.
She saw someone who had loved and lost and still showed up anyway.
When they landed in Guadalajara, Juliana didn’t wait for a taxi.
She rushed through immigration, through baggage claim, through the automatic doors and into the thick Mexican air.
Tía Rosa was waiting outside with swollen eyes and a trembling smile.
“Julianita.”
They embraced tightly.
“How is he?”
“He’s so tired,” her aunt whispered. “But he still asks for you.”
Juliana’s voice broke. “I need to see him now.”
Tía Rosa turned to Leonardo. “Thank you for coming.”
Leonardo offered a respectful nod. “We’ll do everything we can.”
That evening, Juliana sat beside Nacho’s bed, holding his tiny hand as he slept.
The hospital light buzzed faintly above them.
Leonardo stood by the door, quiet, watching.
He didn’t say much.
But every now and then, Juliana would glance up and catch his eyes.
And something passed between them.
Not romance.
Not forgiveness.
But something gentler.
The beginning of understanding.
- Writer
