"Then I'll make the tea. You sit."
She didn't argue, which told me how tired she really was. I finished making her tea—chamomile, doctor approved—and brought it to where she'd settled on the couch.
"Thank you." She took the mug, sipped carefully. "You're getting good at this."
"At what?"
"Taking care of me. Being domestic. A few months ago, you would have had someone else make the tea."
"A few months ago, I didn't have you. Didn't have a reason to learn."
She smiled, set the mug on the coffee table. "Come here."
I sat beside her. She took my hand, placed it on her belly.
"Just wait. Sometimes if I'm still for a few minutes, she starts moving."
We sat in silence, my hand on the curve of her stomach where our daughter grew. Waiting.
Then—
A flutter. So faint I almost missed it.
"Was that—?"
"That was her. Did you feel it?"
"I felt something. Like a—"
Another movement. Stronger this time. Unmistakable.
A small kick.
My daughter. Kicking against my palm.
"Lucia," I breathed.
Paola's eyes filled with tears. "She knows you're here."
The kick came again. Then again. Like Lucia was saying hello, announcing her presence.
I was crying. Didn't even try to stop it. This was my daughter. Real. Alive. Making herself known.
"Hi, baby girl," I said, voice thick. "It's your papa. I've been waiting to meet you."
Another kick, right where my hand pressed.
Paola laughed through her own tears. "She's responding to your voice."
"Is she?"
"Talk to her more."
"Hey in there. We've been building your room. Your mama picked out yellow paint because she says it's cheerful. Your Uncle Piero bought you more stuffed animals than any baby needs. Everyone is so excited to meet you."
Kick. Kick.
"She likes your voice," Paola said softly. "She always moves more when you're talking."
