I strained to see as a small form was lifted, then immediately carried to a warming station across the room. A team surrounded him instantly.
I waited for a cry, telling myself I wouldn’t breathe until my son did. But there was silence.
Time stopped.
The operating room became a mausoleum.
I could see a nurse, her expression grave as she worked. Instead of a steady heartbeat, my ears registered only the whine of a flatline.
Then... a mewl. Initially weak, then strengthening. Only then did I permit myself to breathe.
“And a girl,” another voice said. My daughter appeared briefly above the drape before she too was whisked away to the second warming station. Another cry overlaid the first, this one wailing forcefully.
The sound broke my composure. I collapsed into the chair beside Dede’s head, surrendering to tears.
They were alive. All three of my loved ones were alive.
I stood and pressed my forehead to Dede’s, my tears falling onto her skin. “You saved me.”
She offered a weak smile but seemed too fatigued to respond. In the background, a nurse called out weights and Apgar scores, but all I heard were two sets of lungs breathing.
Alive! All of them, alive!
I hadn’t left Dede’s side. Not when they wheeled her to recovery, not when the anesthesia began to wear off and she drifted in and out of consciousness.
The surgery had gone exactly as planned. The doctor performed the salpingectomy Dede had requested after the cesarean, removing both fallopian tubes before closing the incision. She’d been adamant that she wouldn’t risk another tubal ligation, not after conceiving twins despite having had one.
The babies had been taken to the NICU for observation. It was standard protocol for babies born at thirty-six weeks, the nurse had assured me. I’d sent Tia and Chrysanthos to accompany them, choosing to remain with Dede, anticipating the language barrier might isolate her.
Six hours had passed in a blur of watching Dede sleep, pacing, and checking my phone obsessively for updates from both the NICU and my brothers. When my phone buzzed with a text from Kostas, my heart seized.
Mother is awake. Full recovery expected. Asking for you and Deanna.
I closed my eyes, letting the relief wash over me. Before I could respond, a tap at the door announced a nurse wheeling in a double bassinet, with Tia and Chrysanthos following.
Image of the twins...
“Your babies have been doing beautifully,” the nurse announced. “No signs of meconium aspiration. Their lungs are clear and they’re breathing on their own. The doctor wanted you to have some bonding time. You have about an hour with them, then we’ll take them back to the NICU for overnight observation.”
The tension in my shoulders released as I translated the nurse’s words for Dede. Her smile was the brightest I’d seen all day.
“Not only that,” Tia enthused, “they’re gorgeous!” She gave me a teasing look. “Clearly they take after my side of the family!”
The nurse checked Dede’s vitals, smiled at the family tableau, and added, “I’ll be back in an hour. Enjoy your time with them.” She slipped out, closing the door behind her.
I glanced at Chrysanthos, who stood by the bassinet, looking down pensively. I walked over, carefully lifted our son, and placed him in Dede’s waiting arms. “I remember when you were this size,” I told Chrysanthos. “You were a crier.”
Chrysanthos chuckled. I lifted my daughter, kissed the crown of her head, then held her against my chest.
“What are their names?” Chrysanthos asked.
I held up my daughter, turning her toward her brother. “Meet Yianna.”
Beside me, Dede said, “And this is Periklis, who we’ll all call Perry.”
Greek tradition dictated he should have carried his paternal grandfather’s name — Periklis. But Lydia had lost both her parents as a child, and naming our twins after her parents had been the one thing she’d asked of me. I couldn’t refuse her.
The plan had always been to give the next son my father’s name. But there was no next son. Not with Lydia.
