The anatomy scan was exactly what I needed.
Dr. Lin moved the wand across my belly whilst Cesare and I watched Lucia on screen. So much clearer than early scans. I could see her face—tiny nose, perfect lips, delicate chin. Her hands moved in front of her face, fingers spreading and closing.
"Everything looks perfect," Dr. Lin said, measuring. "Head circumference, femur length, heart chambers—all exactly where they should be for twenty weeks."
After the morning's grief, seeing Lucia healthy and growing felt like a gift.
"She's really okay?" I asked.
"She's more than okay. She's thriving."
We left with ultrasound photos—Lucia's face in profile, her tiny feet, her hands. Proof of life growing despite death.
That evening, after staring at the photos for the hundredth time, I felt it.
The weight of the day. The grief. The forgiveness. The hope. All of it pressing down.
"I need you," I whispered to Cesare.
He understood immediately. "Come here."
He led me to the bathroom. Started the shower—multiple heads activating, steam filling the space instantly.
"We both need to wash this day off," he said.
I nodded, already undressing. The clothes felt heavy with grief and tears.
I wanted them gone.
Cesare undressed too, and we stepped under the water together.
The heat was almost painful at first. I let it cascade over me, washing away the grief, the complicated emotions, the weight of loss. Cesare's hands found me—gentle at first, just washing. Shampoo worked through my hair with careful fingers. Soap sliding across my shoulders, my back, my arms.
Tender. Reverent. Like I was something precious he treasured.
I returned the favor, washing him, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he trembled slightly under my touch.
"I love you," I said. "Even when everything hurts—I love you."
"You're everything," he said, turning me to face him. Water streamed between us. "You and our baby. You're everything."
His mouth found mine. Hungry. Desperate. Claiming.
I kissed him back with equal intensity, the day's grief finally releasing into pure need.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I said, "Take me to bed."
He turned off the water, grabbed towels. We barely dried off before his hands were on me again, lifting me, carrying me to the bedroom.
The city lights filtered through the windows, painting everything in silver and shadow.
He laid me on the bed carefully, mindful of the bump, his eyes drinking in every inch of me.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured. "Carrying our baby. You're incredible."
"I don't feel incredible. I feel sad and grateful and overwhelmed."
"Then let me make you feel something else."
