Tara was there, transferring the squalling bundle into Christina’s arms. “She’s been fussy for about ten minutes. I think she’s hungry.”
The nurse had shown her how to do this before—in that blur of time right after birth, when everything had been overwhelming and new. Christina fumbled with her hospital gown, got Violet positioned, and felt the strange pull as the baby latched on.
It hurt more than she’d expected. But Violet’s cries stopped immediately, replaced by contented little gulping sounds, and Christina found she didn’t care about the discomfort.
“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s it, sweet girl.”
The room had emptied while she slept. Only Tara remained, settled in the chair beside the bed with a cup of coffee. The shadows under her eyes said she hadn’t slept at all.
“Where is everyone?”
“Cafeteria. Ryan was starving—I don’t think he ate anything all day. Will took him and Sam down to get food. Ally had to meet a new client, and Evan and Emily went to change Grace.” Tara smiled. “It’s been quite a day.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost five. You slept for about six hours.”
Six hours. Christina looked down at Violet, at the tiny face scrunched in concentration as she nursed. Six hours of her daughter’s life that she’d missed.
“The pediatrician came by while you were sleeping,” Tara said, reading her expression. “Everything looks perfect. She’s healthy, her reflexes are good, and her hearing test came back normal.”
Christina nodded, not trusting her voice.
“She has your chin,” Tara added. “The little point at the bottom. You had the same thing when you were born.”
Christina forced a smile. Her chin. Her mouth and cheeks, according to Ryan. But everything else—the dark hair, the warm golden skin that looked nothing like Christina’s fair complexion, the shape of her eyes, the set of her brow—those belonged to a man three thousand miles away who didn’t know his daughter existed.
She should tell her mom. She knew she should. Every day she kept this secret, it grew heavier. And her mom and family deserved to know who Violet’s father was.
But every time Christina opened her mouth to say the words, she imagined what would come next. The questions. The concerns. The well-meaning advice about lawyers and custody and Marco’s rights as a father. And then the Castellano family would find out, and everything would change.
So she kept quiet. She just held her daughter and let the moment stretch out, golden and warm like the light through the window.
Violet finished nursing and unlatched, milk-drunk and sleepy. Christina lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back the way the nurse had shown her, and was rewarded with a tiny burp.
“Professional,” Tara said, grinning.
“Beginner’s luck.”
Violet’s eyes were open again, that unfocused newborn gaze drifting around the room. Blue-gray, like all newborns. But Christina could already see it—the shape that would sharpen as she grew, the color that would deepen and shift. In a few months, those eyes would be green with gold flecks. Unmistakably Marco’s.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Ryan poked his head in.
“Hey, Sam wants to know if she can come back and do a few more sketches. She’s being weird about it, but I can tell she really wants to.”
Christina smiled. “Tell her yes. And tell everyone else they can come back too.”
Ryan disappeared, and a few minutes later the room began filling again—Ally with a bag of snacks, Evan checking his phone, Emily and Grace, Will with more flowers, Sam clutching her sketchbook. They arranged themselves around the room, and Christina found herself at the center of something she hadn’t known she needed.
Sam was already sketching again, perched on the windowsill this time, her pencil moving in quick strokes. She’d angled herself to catch Christina and Violet in profile, the golden early evening light falling across them both.
“That’s the one,” Sam murmured, more to herself than anyone. “That’s the painting.”
The nurse appeared in the doorway. “Visiting hours end in thirty minutes. And Christina, the lactation consultant wants to stop by one more time before the night shift.”
“I’m staying,” Tara announced before Christina could ask. “The nurses said it’s fine. That chair folds out into something that’s almost a bed.”
“Mom, you need sleep too?—”
