At nine months pregnant, my body protests pretty much everything these days.
Then comes a twinge in my stomach, a cramp that almost makes me wince.
“You alright there?” Ms. Poitier asks, climbing down from the stepladder.
“Yeah… I think so,” I assure her, waving off her concern. “Just the usual pregnancy discomfort. It seems any movement these days takes a lot out of me.”
She eyes me skeptically but doesn’t push me on it. Instead, she moves to help me adjust the flower arrangement as we fall back into easy conversation.
“You know,” she says, her tone full of warm nostalgic tone, “Caelian was such a sweet child. Exhausting, mind you, but sweet.”
“Really?” I lean against the credenza, grateful for the chance to rest. “Tell me more.”
“Well, as you know… he was very sick, even as a boy. Could hardly play with his brother and cousins—all that running around would leave him breathless and pale,” she says with a slight frown. “But he kept me thoroughly entertained indoors. That boy read more comic books than any child I’ve ever known. And he had this Batman action figure he carried everywhere.”
“No way!” I laugh, trying to picture serious, dangerous, hulking Caelian clutching a toy Batman as a boy.
“I’m serious! Wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Even slept with it on his pillow. He’d make up these elaborate stories, acting out scenes with all his toys. He had quite the imagination.”
“Do you have any childhood photos?” I ask, my heart aching for the sick little boy who grew into the man I love. “I’d love to see what he looked like. I’ve asked him before but he always refuses, and there aren’t any hung up in the house.”
Her frown deepens. “Unfortunately, there aren’t many. Carmine wasn’t the sentimental type—didn’t believe in ‘cluttering the house with memories,’ as he put it. And Caelian’s mother...” She trails off, but I know better than to push. “She was no longer around.”
Another cramp hits, stronger this time. I breathe through it, keeping my expression neutral.
Then Ms. Poitier’s face lights up and she snaps her fingers. “Wait! Now that I think about it, I might have something. Wait here.”
She scurries from the room with surprising speed for a woman her age.
A moment later, she’s back clutching her wallet, fishing through the worn leather until she produces a faded Polaroid.
“I kept this hidden from Carmine. Took it myself on Caelian’s sixth birthday.”
She hands it to me for a look. I’m immediately smiling, my heart fluttering with pure fondness.
The photo shows a small boy with dark hair and gray eyes, sitting at a table with a single cupcake in front of him. He’s wearing a blue party hat that’s slightly crooked, grinning at the camera with several teeth missing. The smile is so genuine, so innocent—before the weight of his father’s cruelty and Nero’s experiments crushed the light out of him.
Before he grew into the hardened man he is today.
“Oh my god, he was so cute.”
“He was a darling,” Ms. Poitier agrees. “Still is, under all his swagger and scowls.”
My fingertips trace the edge of the photo, imagining the little boy who loved Batman and read a mountain of comic books.
“Can I... can I keep this?”
Ms. Poitier puts her arm around my shoulders, squeezing gently. “It’s yours, honey. I think he’d like you to have it.”
I tuck the photo into the pocket of my maternity pants for safe keeping.
We return to finishing up the decorations. The cramps continue—irregular but persistent—but I push through. We only have an hour before Caelian’s due home, and I want everything to be perfect.
Right on schedule, I hear the front door and Caelian’s heavy footsteps in the entrance hall.
“Nevaeh?” he calls through the halls, his tone one of fatigue but determination. “Where is everyone? It’s suspiciously quiet.”
Ms. Poitier and I exchange excited glances. Dr. Tulio, who joined us twenty minutes ago, hides with us in the dining room. He looks somewhat uncomfortable in his white doctor’s coat, but a rare smile is pulling at the corners of his mouth.
