Violet Frida Singleton had arrived at 3:47 in the morning, after fourteen hours of labor that Christina barely remembered through the haze of exhaustion and pain and the fierce, animal determination to push when they told her to push. And now here she was—tiny fingers curled into fists, rosebud mouth working even in sleep, a dusting of dark hair that was still damp from her first bath.
Dark hair. Not honey-blonde like Christina’s. Not light brown like Tara’s or Evan’s or Ally’s.
Dark, like Marco’s.
And her skin—Christina had expected the ruddy pink of most newborns, but Violet’s complexion had already settled into something warmer. Golden, almost olive-toned. Nothing like Christina’s own pale skin that only tanned reluctantly in summer and faded to near-translucent by October unless she stayed in the sun. This was Mediterranean coloring, the kind that came from generations of Italian sun.
Christina traced a finger along Violet’s cheek, impossibly soft, and felt her throat tighten. The baby stirred, eyes fluttering open for just a moment—that unfocused newborn gaze, the blue-gray color that all babies had at first. But there was something in the shape , something in the way they seemed to look right through Christina, that made her hold her breath.
You’re going to have his eyes, she thought. His skin, his hair. In a few weeks, a few months, everyone’s going to wonder.
“She’s perfect.”
Christina looked up to find Tara standing beside the bed, tears streaming down her face despite the enormous smile. Her mother had been there through all of it—holding her hand through contractions, wiping sweat from her forehead, whispering encouragement when Christina was sure she couldn’t do it anymore. She looked almost as exhausted as Christina felt.
“Do you want to hold her?”
Tara’s hands trembled as Christina transferred the tiny bundle into her arms. The room smelled of the flowers that had started arriving an hour ago—roses from Will, a huge bouquet from her sister, wildflowers from Francesca and Bo, a potted lavender plant from Dora and Sam that sat on the windowsill. Underneath it all was that other smell, the one Christina couldn’t quite name—warm and sweet and new. The smell of her daughter.
“Hello, Violet,” Tara whispered, rocking gently. “I’m your grandmother. Your Nana. We’re going to have so much fun together, you and me.”
The door opened, and Ally slipped in, followed by Evan and Emily. Emily had Grace on her hip—the baby was five months old now, wide awake and curious about all the commotion. The room suddenly felt very full.
“Is that her?” Ally crossed to Tara’s side, peering down at the bundle. “Oh my gosh, she’s so tiny. Was I ever that tiny?”
“Smaller,” Tara said. “You were five pounds even. The doctors were worried, but you came out screaming and never stopped.”
“That tracks.” Ally grinned, then looked at Christina. “How are you feeling?”
She considered the question. Every muscle in her body ached. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. She’d been stitched up in places she didn’t want to think about, and the mesh underwear the nurse had given her was possibly the least dignified thing she’d ever worn.
“Amazing,” she said, and meant it.
Evan appeared at her bedside, bending to kiss her forehead. “You did well, little sister.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed his hand, squeezed. “Where’s Ryan?”
As if on cue, the door swung open again and Ryan burst in, a huge grin on his face. His eyes went straight to Christina, then to the baby in Tara’s arms.
“Is that?—”
“Come meet your niece,” Tara said softly.
Ryan approached as if the baby might shatter if he moved too fast. He peered down at Violet with an expression Christina had never seen on his face before—wonder, mixed with something that looked almost like fear.
“She’s so little,” he said. “Are they supposed to be that small?”
“Seven pounds, four ounces,” Christina said. “That’s actually pretty average.”
“Can I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I’ve never held a baby before.”
“Sit down.” Tara nodded toward the chair beside Christina’s bed. “I’ll show you how.”
Christina watched as her mother carefully transferred Violet into Ryan’s arms, adjusting his grip, showing him how to support the head. Ryan sat frozen, barely breathing, staring down at the tiny face like she was the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen.
“She looks like you,” Ryan said quietly. “Around the mouth and cheeks, I think.”
Christina’s stomach tightened. Maybe, then again, she and Marco both had high cheekbones. But everywhere else—the dark hair, the golden skin, the shape of her eyes, the particular curve of her nose—that was all Marco. Features that would become more pronounced as she grew. Features that would eventually require an explanation.
