I wheel myself closer to the table.
"Where were you?"
Eraldo doesn't answer. His hands rest on the table, trembling slightly.
"You ditched your security detail," I continue. "Threw away your phones. Disappeared for six hours. Your children have been trying to reach you for days. Your daughter—" I stop. Breathe. "Antonella has been worried sick. Gianna too."
Still nothing.
"Look at me."
Eraldo raises his head. Slowly. Like it takes all his strength.
"Where were you?"
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"I wanted to end it."
The words are barely a whisper.
I don't move.
"Explain," I say.
Eraldo's hands curl into fists on the table. His whole body is shaking now. Not from cold. From something deeper.
"I went to the bridge." His voice cracks. "The one by the river. Teresa and I—" He stops. Swallows. "We used to walk there. When we were young. Before the kids. Before everything."
Teresa. His wife.
"I stood there for hours," Eraldo continues. "Looking at the water. Thinking about how easy it would be. One step. That's all. One step and it would be over. No more pain. No more—" His voice breaks completely. "No more looking at my children and seeing her face."
I say nothing.
"But I couldn't do it." Eraldo laughs. The sound is hollow. Broken. "I'm a coward. I've always been a coward. I couldn't even do that right. So I just... walked. For hours. Until it was late and I realized I needed to get back to Chicago. Back to—" He gestures vaguely. "This."
"Why?"
Eraldo looks at me. Really looks at me. For the first time since he sat down.
"You want to know why?" His voice rises. "You want to know what it's like? To lose the love of your life? To wake up every morning and reach for her, and she's not there? To hear her voice in your head, telling you to get up, to keep going, and knowing you'll never hear it for real again?"
I grip the armrests of my wheelchair.
"You want to know what it's like to look at your children?" Eraldo's eyes are wet now. Tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. "To see her in every one of them? Antonella has her eyes. Gianna has her laugh. Claudio has her stubbornness. And every time I look at them, I remember that she's gone. That I couldn't save her. That I watched her waste away and there was nothing I could do."
His fist slams against the table.
"I couldn't be a good father." The words are a sob. "I tried. God, I tried. But every time I looked at them, all I could see was her. All I could feel was the hole she left. And I couldn't—I couldn't?—"
"You didn't try."
Eraldo freezes.
"What?"
"You didn't try." I lean forward. "You didn't try to be a good father. You gave up. The moment Teresa died, you gave up on everything. On your children. On your family. On yourself."