Chapter 10 - CAMILO LEARNED THAT PROTECTING HIS PREGNANT WIFE DID NOT MEAN LOCKING HER INSIDE THE HOUSE
Pregnancy made Camilo stupid.
Joanna told him at twelve weeks.
“You have become stupid.”
He stared.
“I’m cautious.”
“You sent a driver behind me to the grocery store.”
“Security.”
“I had security.”
“Additional security.”
“You moved my office meetings downstairs because you said stairs are dangerous.”
“You slipped once.”
“On ice.”
“Gravity remains.”
Joanna covered her face.
Eileen, now back at her facility but visiting often, supported Joanna enthusiastically.
“Men become useless around babies.”
Camilo glared.
“You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
The pregnancy was healthy.
Dr. Helena Brandt refused to manage it because trauma surgery and obstetrics were different professions.
Camilo seemed offended medicine had boundaries.
Joanna chose Dr. Rebecca Shah.
Calm.
Direct.
Unimpressed by Camilo.
Perfect.
At sixteen weeks, Camilo asked whether Joanna should reduce travel.
Rebecca said:
“If Joanna wants.”
At twenty weeks:
“Should she stop warehouse visits?”
“If Joanna wants.”
At twenty-four:
“Should we hire a private—”
Rebecca stared.
Camilo stopped.
Joanna smiled.
He was learning.
Slowly.
Then an actual complication appeared.
Joanna’s blood pressure rose at thirty weeks.
Not dangerous yet.
Monitoring.
Reduced stress recommended.
Camilo became unbearable.
Joanna found him replacing her work calendar with remote meetings.
She stared at the shared screen.
“Did you do this?”
Camilo froze.
Old habit caught live.
“I thought—”
“No.”
He closed his eyes.
“You’re right.”
“You didn’t even ask.”
“No.”
“Undo it.”
“Yes.”
He restored everything.
Then:
“Can I ask whether you’d consider reducing travel?”
“Yes.”
“Would you?”
Joanna thought.
“Some.”
They reviewed together.
Chicago warehouses remained.
Out-of-state trip canceled.
Board presentations delegated.
Her choice.
Camilo’s fear stayed visible.
Good.
Not secretly converted into control.
At thirty-two weeks, another case entered Joanna’s department.
A subcontractor had been charging workers illegal transportation fees.
Old Joanna might have worked fourteen-hour days.
Pregnant Joanna wanted to.
Then remembered.
Pain endurance was not worth.
She assigned Emily—now compliance manager—to lead initial review.
Emily stared.
“Me?”
“You.”
“What if I mess up?”
“You will.”
Emily looked horrified.
Joanna smiled.
“Then we review.”
That was leadership.
Delegation.
Trust.
The case was handled well.
No crisis.
Joanna hated how proud that made her.
Then tragedy almost returned through Eileen.
At thirty-four weeks, Eileen developed pneumonia.
Hospital.
Joanna’s blood pressure spiked.
Rebecca told her:
“You need rest.”
Joanna wanted to sleep beside her mother.
Camilo asked:
“What do you want?”
“To stay.”
“Okay.”
No lecture.
He arranged a recliner only after asking the nurses.
Joanna stayed one night.
Then realized she was exhausted.
Old guilt whispered:
Leave and something happens.
She stood beside Eileen’s bed.
“I’m going home.”
Eileen opened one eye.
“Good.”
Joanna stared.
“You’re supposed to guilt me.”
“I’m sick.”
“Not evil.”
Joanna laughed.
Then cried.
Eileen recovered.
Again.
At thirty-six weeks, federal oversight formally ended on the last Harbor restitution program.
Joanna attended remotely.
Final report:
6,812 accounts reviewed.
Thousands of illegal charges reversed.
Millions refunded.
Hundreds of borrowers paid lawful principal through revised terms.
Common Ground had replaced Harbor partnerships at twenty-three employers.
Cassandra remained incarcerated.
Margaret visited monthly.
Joanna received one letter from Cassandra.
She almost did not open it.
Then did.
Joanna,
I spent a long time believing you had something my family lost because Camilo gave it to you.
Money.
Status.
Safety.
I thought if I could make you afraid again, I could prove you were never stronger than me.
I was wrong.
You were stronger because you stopped hiding.
I am not asking you to forgive me.
I am trying to understand what my father did without making his crimes the only thing I remember about him.
I don’t know how yet.
Cassandra.
Joanna read it twice.
No reply.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
That was allowed.
Then labor started at thirty-eight weeks.
At 1:43 in the morning.
Joanna woke with a contraction.
Waited.
Another.
Camilo slept.
She stared at him.
For one mischievous second, she considered letting him sleep longer.
Then:
“Camilo.”
Nothing.
“Camilo.”
He opened one eye.
“What?”
“I think it’s time.”
He sat upright so fast he nearly hit the headboard.
“What?”
“Baby.”
He jumped out of bed.
Then froze.
“What do you need?”
Even panicking, he asked.
Joanna smiled through another contraction.
“Pants.”
He looked down.
He was wearing pajama pants.
“My pants?”
“My pants.”
“Oh.”
He found them.
Wrong pair.
Joanna laughed.
Then stopped during contraction.
Camilo’s face went pale.
“Hospital?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
He called the doctor.
Driver.
No convoy.
Joanna had prohibited convoy.
At the hospital, Camilo remained beside her.
Hours.
Not controlling nurses.
Not threatening anyone.
Mostly useless.
Exactly as husband should be during labor.
At one point Joanna squeezed his hand so hard he winced.
She noticed.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He laughed through tears.
Their daughter arrived at 10:18 a.m.
Dark hair.
Strong cry.
Seven pounds six ounces.
They named her Maeve Eileen Marquetti.
Eileen cried when told.
Then immediately asked why she did not get first name.
Joanna laughed.
Camilo held Maeve.
His enormous hands around a tiny baby.
He looked terrified.
Joanna whispered:
“Close your hand.”
Camilo looked.
“What?”
“Not around her.”
“Obviously.”
She smiled.
“Just your fingers.”
He closed one fist.
Joanna did the same.
Her scarred palm.
His calloused one.
Then both opened.
Years earlier, Joanna begged her hands to move because she needed them to survive another shift.
Now she touched her daughter’s cheek with those same fingers.
Maeve turned toward her hand.
Joanna cried.
Camilo kissed the scar on her palm.
Quietly.
No room full of powerful men.
No speeches.
May you like
Just them.
And for once, Joanna did not think about work.
