Upstairs, the shower is running, Santo’s heavy steps, the low hum of his voice drifting through the vents, warm, familiar, comforting. I smile to myself and turn back toward the dining room.
The food is already in the kitchen. La Serenata delivered everything early, just like Santo said. Which means all that’s left is the fun part.
Setting the table.
Emerald and gold today. Our colors.
I lay the plates first, deep emerald with thin gold edges, then place the napkins, folded neatly, tied with velvet ribbon. I adjustthe candles, shift a centerpiece sprig of evergreens, take a step back.
Perfect.
It looks exactly like the Christmas I always imagined having.
I walk around the table to set the dessert forks and then pause mid-step.
Because she’s there.
The painting.
Hung on the wall directly facing the dining table, because Santo hung it there.
Front and center.
So he could look at his mother every day.
My chest tightens as I walk toward it.
Lucia Amato, sunlight caught in her hair, soft smile on her lips, eyes bright with kindness. I painted her last year as a gift, working late at night while Santo slept, using an old photograph and every story he ever told me to guide my brush.
He lit up when I gave it to him.
My fingertips brush the edge of the frame.
“Hi,” I whisper, warmth rising in my throat. “I haven’t talked to you in a while, but I have big news.”
The room is quiet. Soft morning light pours through the windows. Santo is still upstairs humming, a habit he started when I was afraid of being alone.
I lean in a little closer.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words leave me in a soft, trembling breath. They float into the quiet like snowflakes, delicate, fragile, beautiful.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
“I wanted to tell you,” I whisper. “Before the day gets busy. Before all the noise starts.”
My hand drifts unconsciously to my belly. “It’s just a speck right now, but—”
I sigh, a soft smile slipping.
“He’s going to be a wonderful father,” I whisper. “He already is. But… if you’re listening… if you’re watching…”
My voice cracks into a tiny, hopeful laugh.
“Send us a girl.”
The request hangs between us like a prayer.
