My son is curled on his side in the massive bed, dark curls spread across the pillow like a halo. His stuffed T-rex is tucked under one arm, its fabric worn soft from constant holding. His small chest rises and falls with perfect rhythm.
He looks so small in that bed. So fragile. So impossibly precious.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything except stand there, leaning on Mina, staring at this perfect little person we made together. This miracle that shouldn’t exist but does anyway, sleeping peacefully in my house, under my protection, safe and healing and alive.
“He’s getting stronger every day,” Mina whispers beside me, her voice soft and warm against my ear. “The jaundice is almostgone. You can barely see the yellow anymore. Dr. Silva says his recovery is ahead of schedule.”
“Because of you.” I turn my head to look at her, and she’s so close our noses almost touch. “You’re taking such good care of him. Of both of us.”
Her smile is tremulous, uncertain, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to be happy about my praise. “I’m trying.”
God, I want to kiss her. I want to pull her close and show her exactly what it means to me that she’s here, that our son is healing, that for the first time in my life I have something worth protecting. A family.
“He’s so strong,” I whisper, and I want to freeze this whole perfect moment in amber. “Like his mama.”
Mina’s hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining with a naturalness that makes my heart ache.
“When are we going to tell Leon?” I ask quietly, not wanting to break this perfect moment but needing to know.
“Tell Leon what?”
“That I’m his father.” I keep my voice soft. “He’s calling me Cristiano like I’m a stranger.”
She tenses further, and I can feel her building walls even though her hand is still in mine. “He’s four years old. He just had major surgery. It’s too much too fast.”
I know what she’s really saying. That as long as Leon calls me Cristiano, she can pretend this is temporary. That we’re just two people sharing space while Leon heals, and she hasn’t made any decisions or commitments.
But the moment Leon calls me Papa, everything changes. It becomes real and permanent and impossible to take back.
I brush the blade of my nose across her temple. “I’ve missed four years, Mina. I don’t want to miss any more.”
She looks away, and I can see the panic rising in her eyes. “I just— I need—”
Leon stirs, his eyes blinking open slowly, adjusting to the light filtering through the curtains.
“Mama?” His voice is sleepy and small and so trusting.
Mina hurries toward him, grateful for the interruption, and I have to shift my weight to compensate for the sudden loss of her warmth against my side. The cold rushes in where she was.
“I’m here, baby.” She sits on the edge of his bed, smoothing his curls back from his forehead with such tenderness it makes me ache. “Look who came to see you.”
Leon’s gaze finds me, and his face brightens with a smile that hits me square in the chest. “Cristiano!”
Not Papa. Not yet. But there’s affection in the way he says my name, like he’s happy to see me.
“Hey, buddy.” I ease myself down to sit on the edge of his bed, moving carefully so I don’t jar my incision, and Mina hovers anxiously beside me, ready to catch me if I wobble. “How are you feeling?”
“Good!” Leon is animated now that he’s fully awake. “Look, Mama bought me new dinosaurs yesterday. This one’s a velociraptor, and this one’s a—”
“Leon, baby, be careful.” Mina’s hand flies to his shoulder, gently pressing him back against the pillows with practiced efficiency. “You need to move slowly, remember? Your tummy is still healing.”
“But I feel better.” He squirms under her touch. Then his eyes land on my side, on the place where my shirt is stretched over my bandage. “Does yours hurt?”
“A little. But I’m tough. Just like you.”
“Can I see?”
I lift the hem of my shirt to show him the bandage that covers my incision, the white gauze stark against my skin.
