She held up one hand. “We definitely need to figure out how to break this news to Tia and Santo. But when I said ‘our children,’” she placed both hands on her swollen belly, her expression shifting to something tender, “I was talking about these children.”
“Theó mou,” I muttered, pressing my palms against my eyes. “How many?”
“We’re having twins. A boy and a girl.”
Twins. Two heartbeats. I could hear them now, echoing across twenty-four years, and my hand involuntarily moved toward Dede’s abdomen before I caught myself.
Not again. I would not survive losing them again.
Lydia had been carrying twins. A boy and a girl. We had chosen Chrysanthos for the boy, Kalliope for the girl. “Our little performers,” Lydia had whispered, guiding my hand to feel them moving beneath her skin. “They’re dancing together.”
I remembered standing in the hospital room twenty-four years ago, watching the monitors, listening to two strong heartbeats. Then the complications began. Too much bleeding. Not enough oxygen. Decisions made too late.
Lydia slipped away while I held her hand, whispering promises I couldn’t keep. Our daughter never took her first breath. The nurses had wrapped her in a pink blanket and offered to let me hold her.
I wanted to refuse, but she was mine. My Kalliope. My little performer who would never dance.
I had sat in the hospital room, holding both my children. One screaming his fury at the world, and the other silent forever.
My father arrived an hour later. “Aris.” His voice was rough with grief. “You have a son. That is what matters now. You must be strong for him.”
So I had kissed Kalliope’s forehead and let the nurse take her away. I buried my wife and daughter in a single ceremony, built an empire on grief and determination, and raised Chrysanthos with singular focus. I had constructed my entire life around never experiencing that loss again.
And now Dede was carrying twins. The universe was either offering me a second chance, or preparing to destroy me completely.
Dede approached and took my hand in hers. “Are you alright?”
When I didn’t respond, she continued. “I know having children at our age is crazy, but we’ll manage. We’ve each raised exceptional individuals, and despite our mistakes, we’re competent parents.” She paused. “We aren’t responsible for our children’s deviations from our expectations. With these two,” she touched her stomach, “we get another chance to get it perfect.”
I almost smiled at that and covered her hand with mine. She had been carrying my children for months, navigating pregnancy alone, while I had spent those months trying to convince myself she had meant nothing to me.
“We will arrange to be married as soon as possible, yes?”
The solution was obvious. Marriage was the appropriate structure for raising children.
It provided legal protection, clear lines of authority, and societal recognition. The fact that I found myself drawn to her was a bonus.
Dede withdrew her hand. “Excuse me?”
“We should marry. My children, they are entitled to my name, protection and inheritance.”
“They can have that without your ring on my finger.”
“This is not negotiable,” I continued, though even as I spoke, I recognized the desperation beneath my authoritative tone.
Dede stood there, gloriously pregnant with my children, and every instinct demanded I claim her, protect her, bind her to me permanently. Yet the very intensity of that need terrified me. I had learned too well that wanting something desperately was the surest way to lose it.
“In Greece, family structure, it matters. My children will not be born without proper legitimacy.” The values instilled by generations of Christakis patriarchs asserted themselves. “It is the responsible course of action.”
“I understand your Greek traditions, Aris, but this American woman doesn’t subscribe to outdated notions of ‘legitimacy’.”
Her resistance was bewildering. I rose from the bed. “It is about structure. Order. Our children, they deserve cohesive family unit. As their mother, you deserve the protection—”
“Oh no, baby, we are not doing this,” she interrupted with a laugh. “This isn’t 1950. I don’t need a husband to validate my motherhood or protect me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Been there, done that, got the divorce papers to prove it. You think after what I went through with Kevin I’m signing up for round two? No thank you.”
“I see.” My voice cooled several degrees. “You equate me with a man who abandoned his family when they needed him most. How flattering.”
“That’s not what I said. I’m saying marriage isn’t the solution to every problem.”
