"Neither can I."
"We made her."
"We did."
Around 11 p.m., Lucia woke hungry. I nursed her while Cesare watched, both of us learning together.
"You're doing great," he said.
"I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Neither do I. But we're figuring it out."
After feeding, another diaper change—easier this time. We settled back into bed. Lucia between us in the bassinet, sleeping peacefully.
"Welcome to parenthood," I said.
"It's terrifying."
"And perfect."
"Both."
We fell asleep holding hands across the bassinet, our daughter breathing softly between us.
A family.
Complete.
Everything.
EPILOGUE
Cesare
One Year Later
I woke to Lucia's babbling through the monitor—happy sounds, not crying. A year ago, I wouldn't have known the difference. Now I could distinguish every variation of her vocalizations.
"Mama! Papa! Up!"
I found her standing in her crib, bouncing with excitement, dark curls wild from sleep.
"Good morning, birthday girl," I said, lifting her out.
She wrapped her arms around my neck, pressed her face into my shoulder. This. This moment. A year of these moments, and I still wasn't used to how much I loved her.
One year old today. How was that possible?
I changed her diaper—expert now, the fumbling terror of those first weeks long gone—and carried her to our bedroom.
Paola was awake, smiling as we approached. "There's my girl. Happy birthday, Lucia."
"Mama!" Lucia lunged for her.
We spent the morning transforming the penthouse. Banner across the windows: "Happy 1st Birthday, Lucia!" Pink and gold balloons clustering in corners. The crown-shaped cake waiting on the dining table.
Lucia "helped" by pulling down decorations and getting into everything.
