I doubt we’ll ever be friends. But I’ve learned to respect the man he has chosen to become, and the father he is to Ethan and Alicia.
“Papà! Papà!”
My son’s small squeal cuts through the house, followed by the hurried slap of bare feet in the hallway. Alicia and I laugh without thinking.
The sound dies the second he bursts into the kitchen. I meet his gaze—my mother’s eyes looking back at me—and see them filled with tears.
“Mommy has a boo-boo,” he says, breathlessly. “Told me to call you.”
I’m already moving. I pull away from Alicia, heading for the hall, then stop as it occurs to me.
“Your brother... the jet will land in less than two hours.”
Before I can finish, Alicia is crouching in front of Alessio, her voice calm, as she picks him up. “Go, Papà. I’ll call Uncle Giorgio. We’ll pick Ethan up at the airport and meet you at the hospital.”
I don’t argue. I nod once, grateful, and run for the reading room.
Cecilia sits on the edge of the loveseat, pain etched across her face. Stella stands close, whispering something only her mother can hear, her small hand moving in soothing circles over Cecilia’s belly.
“Did it start long ago?” I ask, dropping in front of her, both hands covering her belly, feeling the tension harden beneath my palms.
“About twenty minutes,” she says, controlled but strained. “We should go. The doctor said...”
I nod, kiss her forehead, and sprint to the nursery, grabbing the bags—hers and the baby’s—packed and waiting for weeks. When I return, she’s already standing, Stella holding her hand with resolve.
“Ready, mamà?” I ask.
She smiles at me, and then the smile turns into a grimace as another contraction takes hold.
“I am,” she says. “Did you see the day your son chose to be born?” She laughs, but the sound breaks into pain.
He wasn’t supposed to come for another four days. But our boy has chosen today.
I slide an arm around her, holding her close as we go to welcome the new love of our lives.
I stroke her hand, press a kiss to her damp forehead, murmuring quiet reassurances.“Andrà tutto bene, amore mio...”[LXXXVII]
The tension in the operating room is thick, verging on suffocating—until a loud, indignant cry shatters the room.
My head snaps up.
Through the clear sterile drape, I see him. Red, wet, squirming, alive and safe in the doctor’s gloved hands. The relief is so overwhelming my knees nearly give out.
“Go,” Cecilia whispers, tears of exhaustion and emotion slipping down her temples into her hair. “Go to him.”
A nurse places the surgical scissors in my hand. Just like last time, I have to force myself to calm down, to control my fingers despite the surge of adrenaline, before making the cut that physically separates him from his mother.
I follow the nurse to the radiant warmer in the corner of the room. I watch, transfixed, as she rubs him briskly with heated towels, coaxing his breath into an even rhythm. He responds with fierce protest. Strong lungs announcing his arrival to the world.
I keep glancing back at the surgical curtain, where the team works to close Cecilia, needing to see movement, to know she’s there. That she’s okay.
Like the twins, our son is born via C-section. He’s a big boy—a true little giant, just as Cecilia liked to tease—and he stubbornly refused to turn from his breech position. The doctor made the call early: a natural birth wasn’t safe.
The nurse wraps him tightly in a blanket and finally places him in my arms.
He blinks under the harsh lights, squinting, and for one suspended second his eyes meet mine. The same shade of amber, bright, piercing. My chest tightens painfully.“Benvenuto al mondo, figlio mio,”[LXXXVIII]I whisper. I turn slightly, shielding him instinctively. “Now let’s go meet yourmamàand find out who you are.”
We chose the twins’ names together, debating them for months. But for our last child, Cecilia asked for that privilege alone. I never hesitated. I trust her heart more than my own.
