"He's so small."
"He's nine weeks old and nearly eight pounds. He's tougher than he looks." She yawned. "You won't break him, Alessio. I promise."
But my hands felt too large, too rough, too capable of violence. How were these hands supposed to hold something so fragile?
Ezio stared up at me with dark, serious eyes while I fumbled with the bottle.
"Okay, buddy. Let's figure this out together."
He latched on immediately, drinking with surprising strength. His tiny hand wrapped around my finger, holding on.
Something in my chest cracked open.
"See?" Valentina murmured, watching us. "Natural."
By the end of that first week one, I could change diapers with military efficiency, prepare bottles with one hand while holding a baby in the other, and identify which twin was crying from two rooms away just by pitch.
"You're better at this than you think," Valentina said one morning, watching me handle both babies simultaneously—Ezio on my shoulder, Eva cradled in my other arm, both content.
"I'm terrified constantly."
"Welcome to parenthood. The terror never stops." She kissed my cheek. "But look at them. They're happy. Fed. Loved. You're doing everything right."
I looked down at Eva and Ezio, both peaceful against my chest.
These tiny humans trusted me completely. And I would spend the rest of my life earning that trust.
Week two brought routine.
Morning wake-up at six a.m.—both babies demanding breakfast simultaneously. Valentina handled Eva while I took Ezio, both of us moving around the small kitchen in synchronized chaos.
"Hand me a burp cloth?"
"Here. Eva needs changing."
"On it. Can you start the coffee?"
"Already brewing."
We'd become a team, anticipating each other's needs, covering gaps seamlessly. The exhaustion was real—neither of us sleeping more than three hours straight—but it felt manageable now. Survivable.
Some mornings were harder. Both babies crying at once, sleep deprivation making us short-tempered, snapping at each other over whose turn it was to change the diaper explosion.
But even those moments felt precious.
This was normal. Real. Ours.
"I love our life," Valentina said one particularly chaotic morning. We were both covered in spit-up, coffee had gone cold, and Eva was screaming while Ezio had just blown out another diaper. "Is that crazy? We're disasters right now."
"Not crazy." I took Eva from her and started the bouncing-swaying motion that sometimes worked. "I love it too. Every overwhelming moment."
"Even the three a.m. crying?"
"Especially the three a.m. crying. It means they're here. Alive. Ours." Eva finally settled against my shoulder. "Means we made it,principessa. We actually made it."
She leaned against me, and we stood in our disaster of a kitchen while our children finally quieted.
Home.
