"The night my Mafia boss husband brought his mistress into our Chicago mansion, I was upstairs nursing our three-month-old daughter. Hours later, he threw me and our baby into freezing rain and told me to see how long we could survive without him. Four years later, when he finally found me, I watched the most feared man in Chicago discover that some mistakes cannot be fixed with money, power, or regret.

I stared at Vincent's hand.

Four years ago, those same fingers had pointed toward the front door of our mansion while he ordered me to leave. Now they trembled against my sleeve, desperate for something he could never purchase.

I pulled away.

“Don't touch me.”

He immediately lowered his hand.

The hallway outside the pediatric ward had gone strangely quiet. A nurse pushed a medication cart past us without meeting my eyes. Somewhere behind the double doors, a child laughed.

That sound almost broke me.

Vincent swallowed.

“Please, Claire. Whatever she said, I deserve to know.”

I looked at the man who had once promised to love our daughter more than anything in the world.

“No,” I whispered. “You don't deserve it. But Lily deserved a father who knew her.”

He closed his eyes.

I leaned against the wall because my knees were beginning to shake.

“Her last night wasn't what you imagine.”

His eyes opened.

“She wasn't screaming. She wasn't asking why you abandoned her. She was tired. She'd been tired for weeks.”

I could still remember the pale yellow walls of the hospital room, the soft mechanical sounds surrounding her bed, and the tiny stuffed rabbit tucked beneath her arm.

Lily called the rabbit Captain Bunny.

Vincent had never heard that name.

“She wanted me to tell her a story,” I continued. “The one about a little star who got lost in the sky.”

Vincent's mouth trembled.

I remembered Lily's small voice.

“Mommy, does every star have a home?”

I had told her yes.

I had told her that even when the sky looked dark, every star belonged somewhere.

“She asked whether the stars could see us from heaven,” I said.

Vincent pressed his fist against his mouth.

“And then she asked about you.”

He barely managed to speak.

“What did she say?”

I looked at him.

“She asked, ‘Is Daddy lost too?’”

Vincent's shoulders began shaking.

“I told her you weren't lost. I told her you were far away.”

He sank slowly into a chair against the wall.

“And do you know what she said?”

He shook his head.

“She said, ‘Then give him my star so he can find his way home.’”

Vincent bent forward as though something had struck him in the chest.

I reached into the pocket of my scrubs.

For two years, I had carried a small silver star attached to a faded blue ribbon.

It was not expensive.

I had bought it from the hospital gift shop for three dollars because Lily wanted something that would sparkle beside her bed.

On her final night, she had pressed it into my palm.

“Daddy might need it more,” she'd whispered.

I held it where Vincent could see.

His eyes fixed on the tiny object.

“That's hers?”

“Yes.”

“Can I—”

“No.”

He flinched.

I closed my fingers around the star.

“She gave this to me to keep safe. I promised her I would.”

Vincent lowered his face into his hands.

For several moments, neither of us spoke.

Then he lifted his head.

“Where is she buried?”

The question was so quiet I almost missed it.

“Under a maple tree in Willow Creek Cemetery.”

“Can you take me?”

“No.”

He stared at me.

“Claire, I'm her father.”

“You were her father when she was alive.”

He looked away.

I hated how much saying those words hurt.

Not because I regretted them.

Because once upon a time, I had dreamed of watching Vincent teach Lily to ride a bicycle. I had imagined family vacations, birthday cakes, bedtime stories, and a little girl running into her father's arms.

Instead, I had watched my daughter die while wondering whether there was anything else I could have done.

Vincent stood.

“I'll pay for everything.”

I laughed once.

It sounded terrible.

“Everything?”

“The hospital. Her medical bills. Whatever debts you have. I'll give you whatever you need.”

“Do you think there's an invoice for the nights she cried because she couldn't breathe?”

His face tightened.

“That's not what I meant.”

“Is there a price for her second birthday? For the Christmas she spent in intensive care? For the three hundred and twelve nights I slept in a chair beside her?”

He had no answer.

“I'm not selling you my forgiveness, Vincent.”

I turned toward the pediatric ward.

He spoke before I could leave.

“Why are you still working here?”

I stopped.

“Because there are other children who need someone to fight for them.”

Then I walked through the double doors.

Inside, seven-year-old Oliver Grant was sitting up in his hospital bed, struggling to finish a drawing.

“Miss Claire!” he called.

I forced a smile.

“What are we making today?”