Christina didn’t answer. Her sister-in-law leaned over and hugged her. “I know you wanted to get married and then have babies, but this is how life worked out. Violet is perfect. Maybe the universe decided you needed the baby first.”
She noticed Emily didn’t ask who the father was. It was like they’d all talked and decided not to ask, which on one hand she was grateful for, but on the other, she wanted to tell them, it was just … she didn’t know if she was ready for all the questions that would follow once she named him.
“Look,” Emily continued as if reading Christina’s mind, “I don’t know what happened or who Violet’s father is, and I’m not asking. But I do know this. Tara, Will, Evan, Ally, Ryan—they all love you. Not because you’re perfect or because you never make mistakes.” She squeezed Christina’s hand. “That little girl is never going to lack for people who adore her.”
A tear slipped down Christina’s cheek before she could stop it.
Grace chose that moment to spit up on the play mat, and the moment dissolved into a flurry of wet wipes and paper towels and Emily’s cheerful cursing.
The casseroles kept coming. Tara’s chicken and rice on Tuesday. Dora’s enchiladas on Wednesday. Some kind of casserole that was unidentifiable but delicious from one of Will’s construction crew on Thursday, delivered with a gruff “Wife made it. Said moms need feeding too.”
Christina’s refrigerator had never been so full.
She learned to sleep when Violet slept, even if it was only twenty minutes at a time. She learned to let family help, to accept Sam’s quiet company, the way the younger woman seemed to understand that sometimes Christina needed a person in the cottage without the conversation. Thankfully, her online job had given her twelve weeks of maternity leave so she could focus all her attention on her daughter.
But at night, when the cottage was dark and Violet was sleeping and there was nothing to distract her, Christina’s mind always wandered to the same place.
She wondered what Marco was doing right now. Three AM in North Carolina—that made it morning in Milan, if that’s where he was. Or was he in New York? Manhattan, maybe, going to brunch at some place that charged thirty dollars for scrambled eggs.
He’d held her face in his hands that night in Miami. Looked at her like she was the only person in the world. “You’re the first real thing I’ve touched in years,” he’d said, and she’d believed him.
Violet stirred, her face scrunching in a way that meant she’d be fully awake in about thirty seconds. Christina reached for her automatically, her body already running on muscle memory.
“It’s okay,” she whispered as Violet’s cries filled the room. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
A few weeks after coming home from the hospital, Christina woke to sunshine streaming through her windows and the unfamiliar sensation of actual rest.
She lay still, heart pounding. Violet. Why hadn’t Violet woken her?
She scrambled out of bed, tangled in the sheets, and rushed to the bassinet?—
Which was empty.
Panic clawed at her throat until she heard the voices from the living room. Her mother’s laugh. A man’s deeper voice—Will. And beneath it all, the quiet snuffling of a content baby.
Christina pressed a hand to her racing heart and let herself breathe.
When she shuffled out of the bedroom, she found Tara on the couch with Violet in her arms, Will cooking bacon and eggs at the stove, and a fresh pot of coffee already brewed.
“There she is,” Tara said, her face bright. “I hope you don’t mind—I used my key. You needed sleep, and this little one was just starting to fuss when I got here. We’ve been having a lovely conversation, haven’t we, Violet?”
Violet kicked her tiny feet, seemingly in agreement.
“How long was I out?” Christina croaked.
“Eight hours straight.” Tara looked smug. “You’re welcome.”
Will set a plate on the kitchen table—bacon, eggs, avocado toast. “Eat. Then shower. And then we’re taking this little one over to the inn to meet the contractors. Give you an afternoon to yourself.”
Christina opened her mouth to protest—she should be with Violet, she should be the one handling everything?—
But Tara was already standing, transferring Violet to Will’s arms with practiced ease. “Eat. Being a good mother doesn’t mean doing everything alone. It means building a life where your daughter is surrounded by people who love her.”
Christina ate her breakfast. The eggs were perfect—creamy, seasoned just right.
She watched her mother coo at her daughter, watched Will bounce Violet gently, watched Angus press his nose to Violet’s blanket with canine curiosity before padding over to rest his head on Christina’s foot.
And underneath the gratitude, the ache persisted. The Marco-shaped absence that no amount of casseroles or village kindness could fill.
