HIS FORSAKEN WIFE HIS GREATEST REGRET

The Present Bites Back

Roberta's POV

The cab was still there when I pulled into the driveway.

The driver leaning against the door, arms crossed, watching my house like he wanted to leave.

I barely parked. The engine was still running when I ran.

“Ziva!”

The back door opened.

She stepped out slowly—one hand gripping the door, the other pressed to her hip like she was holding herself together.

Too pale.

Too small.

“Mommy.”

That was it.

I dropped to my knees and pulled her into me.

And she broke.

A sound tore out of her shaking, and I held her tighter as my own tears came just as hard. We clung to each other, both of us crying like something inside us had finally given way.

“I’m here—” I choked. “I’m here, I’m here baby.”

She buried her face into my neck, her fingers clutching my shirt like if she let go, she’d disappear.

I held her like I could put her back together.

Like I could undo everything.

Behind us, the driver didn’t move. He Just… watched.

Like he had stumbled into something broken beyond fixing.

I carried her inside.

She was asleep before I finished pulling the blanket up.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and looked at her.

I pressed two fingers very gently to her forehead.

it was too warm.

I told myself it was normal surgery recovery. The body working through it.

She woke in the late evening asking for water.

I got her water. She took three small sips. Then she closed her eyes.

"Mommy."

"I'm here, baby."

"I left my iPad."

"How?"

"Doctor Connor said he would find it. He promised."

"Doctor Connor?"

"Yes," she said. "He was nice to me."

"Was he?"

"He sat with me. He held my ankle when I was scared." She said it simply.

"He sounds like a good doctor," I said.

“Where was your father?” I asked before I could stop myself.

She didn’t answer that.

Instead—

“Is Nolan okay?”

The question hit me like a slap.

How could she still be concerned about Nolan after everything she went through.

“Why are you asking about Nolan?” I said, sharper than I meant to.

She blinked at me.

“I just wish that he'd not be sick again and make daddy worry.” she said softly. “Will he be okay?”

God... God, help me. I can't listen to this. Her innocence is just—

I swallowed hard. Forced my voice to soften.

“Yes,” I said. “Your dad said the surgery was successful.”

She relaxed a little at that.

“Grandma said he’s strong,” she added. “She said it’s his blood.”

Something dark twisted inside me. Of course she did. Of course, she made it about him.

I brushed Ziva’s hair back gently.

“You’re the strong one,” I said quietly. “Do you hear me?”

She didn’t argue. But she didn’t agree either.

She was still very weak and sleepy.

I told myself that was expected.

She ate in small amounts. Half a bowl of soup. Some juice.

Day Two

In the afternoon, she asked to sit in the garden. We sat outside for an hour. The sun was low, and the light was the warm amber kind that usually made her want to run across the grass.

She just sat.

"Mommy," she said eventually.

"Yes."

"Why hasn't Daddy come to see me?"

"He's busy, baby."

"With Nolan?"

"I don't know... I think so."

She thought about that.

"Do you think daddy is proud of me?" She said it carefully, like she'd been holding the question for days and was only now finding the door to let it out.

I turned to look at her small innocent face, asking whether her father was proud of her for letting them cut into her bones.

"Yes," I said. My voice was even. It cost me a great deal. "He is very, very proud of you."

She nodded slowly but didn't look fully convinced.

We went back inside.

The fever arrived properly on the second night.

I had been checking her forehead every few hours, noting the warmth that had been sitting there since she came home and telling myself it was manageable. That night, I woke at three to the sound of her breathing and put my hand on her and felt the heat radiating off her like a small furnace.

I called the after-hours clinic line.

I called Jace.

You've reached Jace Riggs—

I called Millie. It rang six times.

"Roberta, love." Her voice was thick with sleep. "It's three in the morning—"

"Ziva has a fever. Thirty-eight-seven. She's been warm since she came home, I think it's been building—"

"Okay." A rustling. "Okay, that's not dangerously high yet. Keep fluids in her. Cool cloth. If it goes above thirty-nine-five, take her to any nearby hospital."

"Which hospital? I don't even know which hospital did her procedure. I don't have any records. Jace has not called or come home since. What if something bad—"

"Roberta." Millie's voice was careful. "Nothing bad is going to happen. It's a post-surgery fever. It's probably just her body adjusting. Get some sleep."

I held the phone after she hung up.

Day Three

She woke up hungry.

I made scrambled eggs. She ate half. Then she put her head down on the table.

"Does it hurt, baby?"

"My hip."

I lifted her shirt. The bandage was clean. No blood. But the skin around it was pink.

I changed the bandage. She flinched but didn't cry.

"Mommy, do you think Doctor Connor found my iPad yet?"

"I hope so."

"He was really nice. He argued with the other doctor. He said they were taking too much. He tried to stop them."

I stopped breathing. "What do you mean, too much?"

"I don't know. He was shouting. The other doctor said Nolan needed it." She looked at me with those tired eyes.

***

Day four

The bruises came overnight.

That afternoon, the fever started again.

Low at first. 99.8. Then 100.4. By evening, 101.5.

I called Jace. No answer.

I hung up.

Looked at Ziva. She was sleeping on the couch. Her breathing was shallow. Her lips were cracked.

***

Day Five

The fever broke in the morning. I thought she was getting better.

She ate toast. She asked about her iPad again. She said she recorded something in there. She asked about Doctor Connor. She asked if Daddy had called.

"No, baby. Not yet."

She looked at the window. "He's with Nolan."

"Probably."

"That's okay." Her voice was small. "Nolan needs him more. Grandma said Nolan comes first."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to drive to Irene's house and break down the door. Instead, I kissed Ziva's forehead.

"You come first with me. Always."

She smiled. Then she closed her eyes.

***

The fever came back at midnight.

Her skin burned. Her lips were cracked and bleeding. She cried when I touched her.

"Mommy, it hurts."

"Where, baby?"

"Everywhere."

I lifted her shirt. The bandage was soaked. Yellow fluid. Blood. The skin around it was red and swollen and hot.

Something was very wrong. I was on my feet at once.

"I'm taking you to the hospital. Sit here while I get my car—"

Just then, she suddenly fell—her body rolled away from the couch down to the floor.

"Ziva." I turned her face toward me. Her eyes were open but wrong — half-focused, drifting. "Ziva, look at me. Look at me."

"Mommy," she said very quietly.

I carried her to my car and rushed her to the hospital at midnight.

***

End of flashback

I sat beside Ziva's bed in ward C with her hand in both of mine, and I watched her breathe.

That was all I did — just watching her chest rise and fall. The nurses had said the doctor was attending to a VIP. They had said *be patient* like patience was something I still had to give.

I had been patient for eight years.

Patient through a marriage that ate me alive. Patient through a mother-in-law who looked at me like I had no right to breathe in the same air as her. Patient through the morning, they put my daughter in a car and drove away.

I had been patient.

And now we were here — in a ward that wasn't the ICU, in a slot that should have been hers, waiting for a doctor who was attending to someone whose money apparently weighed more than my daughter's life.

I looked at Ziva's face.

The injustice of it moved through me in waves — not hot, not loud, just relentless. My daughter had come in first. She had been taken into the ICU first. The slot was hers. And then someone arrived with more money and a better last name, and they took it from her like it was nothing. Like she was nothing.

I squeezed her hand a little tighter. Her fingers were cooler than they should have been.

"Ziva."

She didn't stir.

"Baby." I leaned closer. "Ziva, look at Mommy."

Her chest was not breathing.

I stopped breathing.

The sound that came out of me was not a word.

"Ziva." Her skin under my palms. Wrong temperature. "Ziva, wake up. Wake up."

Her lips. Grey at the edges.

"Someone help me!" My voice tore out of my throat and hit the walls. "Please — she's not breathing — someone—"

The door burst open.

Someone pushed me back.

I let them. I stood at the foot of the bed with my hands pressed together at my mouth, and I watched them work on my daughter, and I did not make a sound.

The room suddenly went quiet.

One nurse straightened.

She turned to look at me.

Her face was empty in a way that faces go empty when they are about to deliver something irreversible. I had never seen that face directed at me before. I understood it immediately, but I didn't want to hear it.

"Ma'am." Her voice was very gentle. "I'm so sorry."