Chapter 12 - Delia Speaks
Delia hated microphones.
There were too many.
Black foam.
Network logos.
Phones raised above shoulders.
Camera lenses pointed directly toward her body.
Frank stood inside the diner window with his arms crossed.
Anton waited across the street beside Donovan.
He had offered to stand with her.
Delia said no.
This part belonged to her.
A reporter shouted first.
“Miss Marsh, did Isabella Marchetti pay you?”
“No.”
“Were you secretly employed by the Marchetti family?”
“No.”
“Are you romantically involved with Anton Marchetti?”
Delia almost laughed.
“That's none of your business.”
Several reporters smiled.
The atmosphere changed slightly.
Delia took a breath.
“My name has appeared in stories I never agreed to participate in.”
The crowd quieted.
“Most of those stories describe me as a waitress, plus-size woman, former hospital volunteer or mystery woman.”
She looked across the cameras.
“All of those descriptions are technically true.”
A few people chuckled.
“But they are not explanations for why three children recognized a melody I hummed.”
She explained.
Not private medical details.
Not Isabella's letters.
Just the truth.
She had volunteered.
She unknowingly spent seventeen nights comforting three premature infants.
She did not know they belonged to Anton Marchetti.
Their family later prevented recommended transition visits.
Months later the children encountered her again.
“They recognized something familiar.”
Delia's voice trembled once.
She steadied it.
“That is the entire mystery.”
A reporter asked, “Why did they call you Mama?”
“They're babies.”
Soft laughter.
“They were learning sounds. They associated me with comfort. I am not their biological mother.”
“Do you want to become their mother?”
The question hurt.
Delia paused.
“They already have a mother.”
Across the street Anton lowered his eyes.
“Her name was Isabella Marchetti.”
Delia continued.
“I never met Isabella as Anton Marchetti's wife. Years ago, I briefly met a woman named Izzy at a community workshop. I later learned she helped support the neonatal volunteer program.”
Another reporter called, “Did she select you?”
“She encouraged people like me to volunteer. That's all.”
“People like you?”
Delia smiled slightly.
“Ordinary people.”
A reporter shouted, “Do you consider Anton Marchetti dangerous?”
Delia laughed.
Everyone turned.
“Have you seen him try to assemble a bottle warmer?”
Even Donovan looked away to hide a smile.
Anton stared at her.
She continued.
“I am not here to defend Mr. Marchetti's reputation or speculate about rumors surrounding his family.”
The mood turned serious.
“I am here because private information about my pregnancy loss was given to reporters.”
Silence.
“That was cruel.”
Her voice hardened.
“And it was done because someone believed embarrassing me would make me disappear.”
She looked straight into the nearest camera.
“It won't.”
Frank clapped from inside.
Then realized nobody else had.
He shrugged.
A few reporters laughed.
Delia finished.
“My son would have been named Samuel.”
The words came unexpectedly.
Her throat tightened.
“I spent a long time believing saying his name made me weak.”
Tears burned.
“It doesn't.”
Across the street Anton stood perfectly still.
“Samuel mattered even though he never came home.”
Delia inhaled.
“And those three babies mattered to me even when I didn't know their names.”
She looked directly into the cameras.
“If someone wants to turn either kind of love into something shameful, that's their problem.”
She stepped away.
Questions erupted.
Delia walked inside.
Frank closed the door.
“You were terrifying.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it positively.”
“I know.”
Her knees gave slightly.
Frank caught her elbow.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Pie?”
“Yes.”
“Whole?”
“Probably.”
Anton entered ten minutes later.
Delia looked up.
He didn't say beautiful speech.
Didn't say brave.
Didn't say he was proud.
He simply sat beside her.
“You said his name.”
“Samuel.”
“Yes.”
“Felt strange.”
“Good strange?”
“I don't know yet.”
Anton nodded.
They ate pie.
Together.
Within hours the public narrative changed.
Not completely.
The internet never became kind all at once.
But thousands of women shared Delia's statement.
Parents of premature babies wrote about nurses, volunteers and strangers who held their children.
Parents who had experienced pregnancy loss shared names they rarely spoke.
Samuel.
Grace.
Noah.
Elena.
James.
Amara.
The story became larger than the Marchetti family.
Vittorio's public-relations campaign backfired spectacularly.
By afternoon his attorney released a statement denying involvement.
By evening a former employee contradicted him.
The following morning two nonprofit board members resigned.
Anton watched the news from his office.
Donovan entered.
“Investigators want formal interviews.”
“Schedule them.”
“They may examine company records going back years.”
“Give them access.”
“That could expose unrelated problems.”
Anton looked at him.
“Legal problems?”
Donovan paused.
“Potential compliance issues from older operations.”
“Then we correct them.”
Donovan nodded.
This Anton was different.
Grief had made him cling to control.
Delia had somehow taught him control and responsibility were not the same thing.
That afternoon he returned home to find all three babies sitting around Delia on a padded mat.
She held a picture book.
Matteo pointed at a dog.
“Dog.”
Delia gasped theatrically.
“Yes!”
Nico slapped the page.
“Dog!”
Lucia screamed:
“CAT!”
Delia laughed.
“That is absolutely not a cat.”
Anton leaned against the doorway.
“You're teaching them incorrectly.”
Lucia spotted him.
“Papa!”
Anton smiled.
“Hello.”
Matteo pointed.
“Papa.”
Nico looked serious.
“Dog.”
Delia collapsed laughing.
Anton stared.
“I am not a dog.”
Nico grinned.
“Dog.”
“Betrayal.”
He sat beside them.
For one hour nobody discussed investigations.
Or money.
Or Isabella.
Or death.
They read books.
Badly.
At sunset Delia stood to leave.
Lucia began fussing.
“I'll be back tomorrow.”
“Dee.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Mama Dee.”
Delia froze.
Anton watched carefully.
Delia crouched.
“You can call me Dee.”
Lucia stared.
“Mama.”
Delia's eyes filled.
She looked at Anton.
“I don't know what to do.”
He sat beside her.
“You don't have to decide today.”
“What if she keeps saying it?”
“She probably will.”
“I don't want to erase Isabella.”
“You can't.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I'll tell them about her.”
Delia looked at the baby.
“We'll tell them.”
Anton heard the word.
We.
Neither commented.
Delia kissed Lucia's forehead.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
When she left, Anton remained beside the front door long after her car disappeared.
Donovan appeared from the hall.
“You're falling in love with her.”
Anton glared.
“You are increasingly comfortable saying things nobody asked you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Anton walked away.
Donovan followed.
“There is a complication.”
Anton stopped.
“What now?”
“The children's developmental specialist called.”
“Are they okay?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“She reviewed videos from this week.”
“And?”
“Their language development has accelerated dramatically.”
Anton smiled.
“That's good.”
“It is.”
“Why are you using your problem voice?”
Donovan handed him the written recommendation.
Anton read.
The specialist strongly advised maintaining Delia as a consistent attachment figure.
Minimum three contact periods weekly.
Predictable routine.
Gradual integration.
Anton looked toward the door.
“She has a job.”
“Yes.”
“She has a life.”
“Yes.”
“I am not asking her to give those up.”
Donovan nodded.
“Then you'll need to figure out how to make room for her without swallowing her whole.”
Anton looked at him.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“Erin said it.”
“Of course.”
Anton read the recommendation again.
He had spent his entire life solving problems with money.
This problem couldn't be bought.
He needed Delia to choose.
May you like
And for perhaps the first time in Anton Marchetti's life, he understood that the most important answer he could receive might be no.
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