Loud. Indignant. The most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
"It's a girl!" Dr. Lin announced unnecessarily, lifting this tiny, screaming person.
Our daughter.
My breath stopped. Time stopped.
Dr. Lin placed her immediately on my chest. Skin to skin.
She was tiny, covered in vernix. Screaming her fury at being born.
Perfect.
"Hi, Lucia," I sobbed. "Hi, baby. I'm your mama."
Her crying quieted slightly, like she recognized my voice.
Cesare's hand touched her tiny head, trembling. "She's here. She's really here."
"She's perfect," I whispered.
Dr. Lin worked efficiently—clamping the cord. "Dad, want to cut it?"
Cesare cut the cord with shaking hands, officially separating Lucia from me for the first time.
She screamed again, not happy about it.
"Strong lungs," the nurse said, smiling. "That's good. Let's get her stats."
They took her briefly—weighed, measured, checked.
"Seven pounds, two ounces. Nineteen inches long. Apgar scores nine and nine."
Perfect. Healthy. Ours.
They brought her back, placed her on my chest again.
She settled immediately, her tiny fist curling around my finger.
"Hi, Lucia Isabella Monti," Cesare said, voice thick with tears. "We're your parents. We love you so much."
I'd never seen him cry like this. Openly. Unashamedly.
"She's perfect," he kept saying. "You're both perfect."
The first nursing attempt was fumbling and awkward, but Lucia latched eventually. The feeling was strange and wonderful and overwhelming.
"You're a natural," the nurse said.
I didn't feel natural. I felt terrified and amazed and so full of love I couldn't breathe.
After an hour of bonding, Dr. Lin said gently, "The family's been waiting. Would you like them to meet her?"
I looked at Cesare. He nodded.
"Two at a time," the nurse said.
"Piero first," I said. "He's been waiting to be Uncle Piero for nine months."
