Tommy. The name sits heavy between us. Our former Road Captain, my mentor, currently serving five years in state prison for club business that went sideways. His sentencing happened two weeks ago. I went. Lena stayed home with Santiago. We don't talk about it much—too raw, too complicated, too much guilt.
"You miss him," Lena says. Not a question.
"Every day. He should be here. Meeting Santiago properly. Giving me shit about diaper duty. Instead he's—" I stop. Can't finish that sentence.
"He knew the risks," Lena says gently. "That's what he told you, right? That he'd do it again?"
"Doesn't make it easier."
"No. It doesn't."
Santiago finishes his bottle, milk-drunk and content. I lift him to my shoulder for burping, the motion automatic now. Pat, pause, pat, pause. Wait for the inevitable burp that sounds impossibly loud from such a small person.
"We're doing okay though, right?" Lena asks, and there's vulnerability in her voice that makes me look at her. Really look.
She's beautiful in the dawn light. Exhausted, yes. Changed by pregnancy and childbirth, absolutely. But beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with aesthetics and everything to do with strength.
"We're surviving," I say honestly.
"That's not the same as thriving."
"No. But it's something. Three months ago, we were in the hospital wondering if we could do this. Now we're here, both alive, Santiago healthy. I call that a win."
"Such high standards."
"I'm setting the bar low so we can feel accomplished." I get the burp, adjust Santiago back to cradling position. He's already falling asleep again, that boneless baby relaxation that comes after a good feeding. "But yeah. We're okay. Tired as fuck, but okay."
"Eloquent as always."
"You knew what you were getting into when you chose me."
"Did I though?" But she's smiling. "I thought I was choosing a dangerous enforcer with good texting game. Turned out I waschoosing the President of Iron Talons, a father, and a man who can change diapers in the dark."
"Plot twist."
"The best kind."
I stand carefully, move to put Santiago back in his crib. He fusses slightly at the transition but settles once I lay him down, tuck Abuela María's hand-knitted blanket around him. The one she made after Miguel told her about Santiago. The one that smells like prayers and hope.
Lena's behind me, close enough that I can feel her warmth. We stand there watching our son sleep, this tiny person who somehow changed everything.
"Come back to bed," she says quietly. "We have maybe two hours before he wakes up again."
"You should sleep."
"So should you. Come on. Let's be unconscious together while we have the chance."
Two hours later—exactly two hours, because Santiago has impeccable timing—we're both awake and immediately exhausted again. The cycle continues.
Lena's in the shower. I'm making coffee strong enough to resurrect the dead and watching Santiago do tummy time on a play mat that Izzy bought. He hates tummy time. Makes his feelings about it very clear through aggressive fussing.
"I know, buddy. Life's hard. But you gotta build those neck muscles."
My phone buzzes. Joker.
"Yeah?"
"Morning, Prez. Got a situation."
