I follow Luca inside, breathing in the smell of fresh flowers and lemon cleaner. Savannah texted me earlier to let me know that the cook from the estate brought over stacks of labeled pre-cooked meals, and she said she could bring anything else we needed over later, too. It makes me happy to know that there are people whom we can trust to care about us. My father will never change, but my brother loves me, and so does my sister-in-law. My friends have texted me wanting pictures of Lucia and asking how I’m feeling.
And I know beyond a doubt that my husband will always love me, too.
"Careful on the stairs," Luca says, even though he's the one carrying the car seat, the hospital bag slung over his shoulder, and I'm empty-handed. His protectiveness has intensified since Lucia's birth—not in the suffocating way I might have feared, but in a way that feels like being cherished. I feel special to him, valuable. Like I matter to him for myself, rather than what I can do for a family name or an organization.
"I'm fine," I assure him, but I'm being careful anyway because exhaustion is making me clumsy, making the stairs feel steeper than they should. Three days in the hospital with interrupted sleep and the overwhelming responsibility of keeping a tiny human alive have left me feeling like I could sleep for months, while also being keyed up and worried about her all the time.
We make it to the nursery, and Luca sets the car seat down on the changing table with exquisite care before kneeling beside it to unbuckle our daughter. His hands are impossibly gentle as they work the straps loose and slide beneath Lucia's small body to lift her free. She stirs slightly, making a small sound of protest that isn't quite a cry, and Luca immediately adjusts his hold, bringing her against his chest.
"Hey, baby girl," he murmurs, his voice soft. "Welcome home."
I watch them together, my husband and my daughter, and feel so happy and grateful that I could cry. This is what I wanted all along, what I was reaching for so desperately when I created Valentina and walked into that club. Not just Luca's love, though God knows I wanted that with an intensity that bordered on madness, but this sense of family. Of belonging. Of building something that we chose instead of something that we were forced into.
"You should sit down," Luca says, glancing over at me with concern etched into his features. "You look exhausted."
"I am exhausted." I lower myself onto the nursing chair carefully, my body protesting the movement. "But I'm also happier than I ever thought I'd be."
He sinks down onto the footrest, Lucia still cradled against his chest, and the three of us sit there in the afternoon light filtering through the windows. The silence is comfortable, domestic, punctuated only by Lucia's small breathing sounds and the distant noise of traffic outside. This is what peace feels like, I realize. Something worth all the pain and mistakes and devastating choices that brought us here.
"Romeo's coming by later," Luca says after a moment. "He wanted to give us time to settle in first, but he's been texting me every hour asking for updates."
"Of course he has." I smile, thinking of my brother's transformation into a doting uncle. He was visiting when my water broke, and I saw my brother panicked, one of the few times in my life. The memory of Romeo's panic as he drove us to the hospital while Luca sat in the back with me gripping my hand, still makes me laugh despite the fear I'd felt at the time. "Did you tell him we're not ready for visitors yet?"
"I told him he could come for an hour. Savannah too, if she wants." Luca's hand moves in slow circles on Lucia's back, soothing even though she's already calm. "If that’s alright?”
I nod. “I think that will be nice.”
Lucia begins to fuss, her small face scrunching up, and Luca immediately shifts to hand her to me. "Here. She's probably ready to eat."
I take her carefully, still not entirely confident in my ability to hold something so small. I’m still so worried I’m going to do something wrong, but the longer she’s here with us, the more confident I become. I see Luca watching us, his face soft with love.
“You’re good at this,” he says with a small smile.
“I guess it’s instinct.” I laugh quietly. “I’m doing my best.”
"You're more than enough." He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're everything, Giulia. To both of us."
Hearing him say that still feels like a relief, like soaking up warmth in the sunlight. This is what I needed all along—not just his love, though that's part of it, but his belief in me. His certainty that I'm capable of being the mother our daughter needs, the wife he deserves, the woman I've been trying to become since the moment I took off that mask and showed him who I really am.
We sit like that for a while, Lucia nursing contentedly while Luca's hand rests on my leg. The exhaustion is still there, but it's bearable because I'm not carrying it alone. I know every day as we go through this, Luca will be there too, changing diapers and bringing me water and talking to our daughter in that soft voice that makes my heart ache with how much I love him.
“I was thinking,” Luca says quietly as he watches us, “that when Lucia is a little older, you should think about going to college, if you want. Figuring out what you might want to do besides just being a wife and a mother.”
I look at him, startled.
“I know you loved school,” he continues. “And I know you love literature. Not a lot of people get the chance to just study and do whatever they want without having to think about practicality. You have that, and I think you should take advantage of it. You gave up everything for this family. The least I can do is make sure you get to have something that's yours. Something you choose."
"I chose you." I frown at him. "I chose this. All of it."
"I know. But you should get to choose other things too." He leans forward and kisses my forehead gently. "You should get tobe more than just my wife and Lucia's mother. You should get to be Giulia too."
My eyes well up with tears out of nowhere. This is the kind of love that I’ve wanted all my life, the kind that my father never gave me—love that wants me to be happy, whatever that means. That wants me to be myself, as well as what someone else needs me to be.
“I would like that,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.” He shakes his head. “And you don’t need my permission. But I thought maybe you could use a little push. You deserve it. You deserve everything. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that."
"We both made mistakes." I reach over and squeeze his hand. "But we're here now. That's what matters."
