“Is that right?”
She tilted her chin. “Yes. Now, come on. Your son wants a beignet.”
“Pretty sure his mother wants the beignet.”
“Details.” She tugged me along, glancing back at the shop once more. “But just so you know, if you ruin the magic, I’ll make sure Maman Brigitte curses you.”
“Good to know.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. Because even though I didn’t believe in voodoo or magic dirt, I believed in Valentina—and that, apparently, was enough to convince me to carry overpriced bottles of dried herbs and graveyard dirt through the streets of New Orleans without complaint.
Weeks later, at 2:00 a.m., Valentina woke me up.
Actually, “woke me up” is putting it lightly. She basically ripped my arm out of its socket, nails digging into my skin, untilI was fully conscious. I opened my eyes to find her staring down at me, eyes wide and slightly panicked.
“My water broke,” she whispered harshly, as if she were accusing me of something criminal.
“You’re sure?”
She glared at me murderously. “Marco, unless I pissed myself, I’m pretty damn sure.”
I scrambled up, my heart suddenly racing, adrenaline shooting through me. For nine months I’d imagined this moment, prepared for it, mentally rehearsed it—yet suddenly, I felt completely useless, fumbling for keys and shoes.
“You’d better drive fast,” she warned as I helped her into the car, carefully adjusting her seat belt around her swollen belly. “If you’re responsible for me giving birth in a car, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I’m fully aware.”
When we got to the hospital, everything blurred together—the nurses, the doctors, Valentina’s colorful string of curses as her contractions intensified, then the threats that were aimed equal parts at me and the anesthesiologist who was apparently taking too long to show up.
Hours later, when it was all finally over—when Valentina’s curses had faded into exhausted silence and the chaos had settled into quiet—we sat together in the dimly lit hospital room, everything muted in shades of early-morning gray. Valentina was sitting up in the bed, pillows stacked behind her, gently cradling our son against her chest. She’d spent the past hour figuring out how to breastfeed.
“How are you holding up?” I asked softly from the chair beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet.
She glanced up at me. “Marco, my nipples feel like they’re on fire, and this child already eats like a teenage linebacker. Define ‘good.’”
I smiled faintly. Even exhausted, even sore and sleep-deprived, she was still Valentina. Sarcastic, irreverent, somehow comforting in her bluntness.
“I’ll grab the nurse?—”
“Don’t you dare,” she cut me off, eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m figuring this out.”
I raised both hands in surrender. “Okay. Figure away.”
She looked down at our son, quiet again. He was tiny, impossibly small, cheeks flushed pink against her skin. Watching them together, I felt a sudden rush of something I couldn’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief.
“Hey,” she murmured suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re staring.”
I shook my head slightly, my voice quiet. “Sorry. Just ... taking it in.”
“Hmm,” she hummed softly, looking down at our son again, carefully brushing a fingertip along his tiny cheek. “He looks just like you.”
People always said babies looked like their fathers. I figured it was just one of those polite things everyone agreed on, like commenting on the weather when you had nothing else to say. But then he was born, and I understood exactly what they meant.
My son looked exactly like me.
Not just a little. Not just the general shape of his eyes or the slight angle of his jaw. Everything. The set of his mouth, serious and stubborn even while he slept. The dark hair, already thick and wild. And those eyes—my blue eyes.
He looked just like me.
