“No.”
The word was firm. Unbreakable.
“You’re breaking their hearts.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me.And what about ours?Her silent response seemed to demand.
“I’m going to shower.”
“Brando?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s changing,mio marito. It’s happening already. You’re going to miss this. You’ll never get it back. Pictures will never do these moments justice.”
Turning away from me, her eyes feasted on the bundle in her arms. She was so natural with the baby. Holding her close. Rocking the chair in a slow pace. Her dress open, exposing her perfect legs and slim ankles and bony bare feet.
I went to leave them, but I stopped just beyond the door. Scarlett assumed that I had left. The sound of her tears met me. Taking a quick peek inside the room, I saw that she had rested her head against the chair, eyes closed, tears sliding down her cheeks, holding the baby even tighter.
She was so damn tired. Exhausted. I knew it wasn’t only from a lack of sleep.
Through the rush of water from the shower, I could hear the baby wailing again. Finishing up in a rush, I took a minute to fix my hair and then put on a pair of sweatpants. There was nothing to do about my face. It was what it was.
Desperation hit me hard outside—the wails, the sniffling of my wife, and the nerves inside of me that refused to fade.
Scarlett was still in the nursery, bouncing the baby, patting her on the back. She was singing along, mostly humming, to the lullaby that still played from the music box. Over the baby’s cries and tears, there was no way she could hear her mother. Scarlett did it anyway.
“Dammi mia figlia,” I said, watching by the door.
Scarlett paused for a moment, unsure. She wanted to ask for confirmation, but she refused to be the first to bring it up. I couldn’t blame her.
“You heard me,” I said, stepping into the room. “Give me my daughter.”
“Your daughter,” she breathed.
“Mine.”
I held out my arms.
The closer she came, the harder it was for me to breathe.
Fate was about to introduce me to my future.
The space had been deep between us, but the moments were closing in, narrowing down to the light from a star.
One heartbeat. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
Scarlett handed her over, my arms suddenly full, yet so enormous compared to her. She was so warm and smelled of my wife. Roses. And milk. Her hair was a light shade of brown, thick, like silk.
I sat in the rocking chair, finally turning her to face me. My reflection stared back at me through the pond of our always. A ripple or two from my wife changed the image.
She was going to have Scarlett’s eyes.
“Green,” I whispered.
No answer. But I couldn’t take my eyes away from her. Then I heard my wife. Scarlett was crying, trying to contain it.
The baby was still crying, too, but not as hard. When I turned her, I made sure her legs kicked against my stomach. She seemed to settle then, making the sweetest noises that I’d ever heard. Her small fists bunched, moving around her angelic face.
