“Have you met Nurse Paola yet? She’s my favorite! She took out my stitches and it didn’t hurt at all!”
“More favorite than Mommy?” Nero teases, and Kael rolls his eyes.
“Mommy doesn’t count, Daddy! Duh! She’s Mommy, not Nurse-Mommy! Did you get stitches too, Daddy?”
“No, buddy. I didn’t.”
“Where did you get hurt?”
“In the head. Just like you.”
Kael jumps, springing upward, and Nero catches him midair. Our son wraps his arms around his father’s neck and uses his shoulders for leverage to kiss Nero’s forehead. I sigh.
“Um… we’ll be outside,” Atlas says, and without even approaching Nero, he and the others step out and close the door.
“Mom,” Kael calls to me.
“Yes?”
“Kiss Daddy’s head too. Two kisses make it go away faster, right?”
I bite my lip—happy to have watched the two of them so far, and torn about whether to accept the invitation to join in.
In the end, I walk around the bed, stopping close enough that my abdomen brushes Nero’s thigh. He looks at me as if he doesn’t know what to expect.
I lean in and place a kiss on his temple. He blinks, tears already pooling there. I hold his gaze for a few seconds, then lean in again and place another kiss in the same spot.
A tear slides down Nero’s cheek, and Kael quickly presses his little hands to his father’s face.
“Don’t cry, Daddy,” he asks, smoothing Nero’s hair. “It’ll pass. It’ll pass! And Mommy’s going to take care of you at home, right, Mommy?”
He looks at me. And without looking away from Nero’s eyes, I answer:
“I will.”
CHAPTER 69
NINA MARCHESI
“I think I’m famous now, Mom,” my son says as he comes into the house, his little backpack strapped to his shoulders. “Everyone waits for me at the daycare door. And then they wait for me to leave too. Right, Dad?” He looks over his shoulder, seeking confirmation from Nero, who’s closing the door behind him.
I frown, not quite understanding what Kael means. A few weeks after the incident that landed Nero in the hospital, things have settled back into a rhythm—and we’ve built a routine. One in which Nero has become an even bigger, more essential part of our lives than he already was.
In addition to being the official bedtime-storyteller, Nero is now the one who drops Kael off at daycare and picks him up. He’s also the one who stays with our son after I leave for work. His visits are far less rigid than before.
Even though we still communicate constantly about schedules, it’s become normal for him to bring Kael home fromdaycare and stay for lunch—and sometimes a bit longer. Another thing that’s become increasingly informal? Nero’s messages. The man hasn’t missed a single opportunity to send me a “Good morning,” “Good night,” or whatever else he feels like.
More than once, I’ve caught myself texting him all day long, only realizing what I was doing when we wished each other good night—virtually.
Kael launches himself into my arms when I bend down to hug him.
“Yeah, buddy? Who?” I ask, trying to make sense of his statement.
“Swarms,” he says, wriggling free of my embrace and lifting both hands, opening and closing his fingers to illustrate. “Women.”
Kael steps away from me and asks to be picked up by his father, who does so immediately. His little hands move up to caress Nero’s face.
“They say I’m like this,” he says, “handsome, just like my dad.”
