“Your father wants to elope to Vegas and be married by an Elvis impersonator.” She rolls her eyes.
“Vegas could be fun.”
“An ex-mobster in a gangster town is not a smart combo, dear.”
“Yeah.” I forgot about Vegas’s illustrious roots, and with my father’s sudden departure from his previous life, it most definitely could be a recipe for disaster.
“We’ll get married at the bar and invite the neighborhood.” She waves her hands toward the dresses. “I don’t need all this after being together for more than three decades.”
I’ll have to plant the bug in my father’s ear. My mother deserves something grand for putting up with his shit for all these years. I wouldn’t have stuck around, waiting for him to grow up and praying every night he didn’t end up in the county morgue.
“You’re never too old for romance, Ma.”
* * *
I gazeat Leo as we stand on the altar of the old church, surrounded by our family in an intimate ceremony. The priest is Italian, speaking only a few words of broken English, but it doesn’t matter.
“You look beautiful,” Leo mouths as the priest says a prayer over our rings, blessing them along with our union.
I picked the dress just for him, wanting to knock his socks off with something classy. The bottom of the silk gown pools at my feet and hugs my body in all the right places, even showing off the baby bump perfectly.
Leo’s dressed in a black suit and silver tie, looking every bit as delicious as the night we met. That’s how we ended up in this situation. Me pregnant, and him begging me to be his forever.
My mother sniffles from the first row, always the first one to cry at a wedding. I couldn’t have planned a better wedding myself. I don’t need the flashy reception and hundreds of guests to profess my love and devotion to my future husband and baby’s father.
I’ve learned a lot about Leo, myself, and life during our trip away from our hectic lives in the city. Life’s sweet and short, needing to be savored like a fine wine instead of chugged like a cheap beer. Italy has helped me realize that. There’s no rush to be anywhere, meals are an event instead of a necessity, and everything has to do with pleasure.
In Chicago, everything is fast-paced, hectic, and anxiety-ridden. But now, after so long away, I crave the easiness of the tiny villages lined with cobblestone streets which scatter out like a spider web from the center.
Last night after dinner, I told Leo I’d be slowing down when we returned. I know he thought I was joking, but there’s no way I want to go back to the insanity of running a business when I don’t have to. I’ll pitch in, but my late-night shifts five days a week are a thing of the past. I want to be the mom who stays home with her baby, cuddling him or her and spoiling them rotten just like my mother did with us.
Memories are our legacy. We’re not remembered for how many hours we worked or the size of our bank account. Our actions are our imprint on people’s souls. How we treat others, the time we spend listening, and the way we love deeply are what will stay with a person long after we’re gone. I want the memories to be sustaining, lasting well beyond my lifetime. I want to be remembered for touching their souls and leaving a lasting imprint on their hearts.
I want my friends, family, and baby to think of me for the love I showered on them and not for the time I spent chained to a neighborhood bar on the South Side of Chicago.
I want my legacy to be undeniable.
Epilogue
Daphne
Seven MonthsLater
“Breathe,” Leo says, pushing the damp hair away from my forehead. “Remember Lamaze.”
I growl and grit my teeth, wondering how I ever loved the man who put me in this situation. “I’m fucking breathing,” I howl as the next contraction hits, catching me off guard.
I want to rip his face off. Scratch that, I want to rip his dick off, so this can never happen to me again. There’s no amount of classes or books that can prepare someone for labor. My body feels like it’s slowly ripping in half, and there’s nothing I can do to take the pain away.
Leo exhales through his mouth, sucking in a quick breath, like I’m going to do the same because there isn’t a watermelon trying to come out of my cunt.
“Shut the fuck up,” I hiss and push his face away, sick of listening to him.
“Bella, don’t be that way. This is such a happy day.”
“For who?” I yell, snarling at the man I showered with kisses when we woke up this morning. “You’re not dying. I am.”
Maybe I’m being a martyr, but every mother going through labor deserves to be whatever the hell she wants to be because the pain is immense.
