She stirs, confused, her head resting against his shoulder. “Tatus?”
“The baby is coming,” he says softly, smoothing her hair.
When we arrive, the house is a blur of motion. Aga pacing, Piotr hunting for her hospital bag, shouting to no one in particular. Dominik carries Zosia upstairs, easing her back into bed while I steady Aga through another contraction.
“Breathe,” I say, my clinical voice slipping through before I can stop it. “You’re okay. They’ll keep you comfortable. Lean on me.”
I help her toward the car while Dominik corrals Piotr, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Relax,” he tells him, half laughing. “Time to be a father again. You’ve got this. It’s a beautiful day, brother.”
Piotr nods, frazzled, clutching the keys like they’re oxygen. “Thank you. Thank you both. Keep mysiostraout of trouble.”
We watch them speed off into the rain, taillights bleeding red against the dark.
When the door shuts behind us, the house exhales, that fragile, delicate quiet that follows chaos. Then, from upstairs, a soft cry breaks through.
“I’ll get him,” Dominik says immediately, already climbing the stairs.
I start the kettle, reach for bottles without thinking. When he comes back down, Kacper’s bundled against his chest, face scrunched and indignant at the world.
“See?” I say, passing him the bottle with a faint smile. “I remembered what you did last time.”
He grins, eyes warm. “Not magic after all.” I say.
“Don’t start bragging until he actually takes it,” he teases.
Kacper latches, hushing between us. I watch Dominik, the curve of Kacper’s cheek against his chest, the calm orbit that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Something in me loosens. Maybe this is what healing looks like, not forgetting. Just making space for new moments to exist between the ache.
Dominik’s at the stove, hair a mess, turning breakfast into what looks dangerously close to chaos. I’m cutting bread for toast and pretending not to hover. Coffee and fried batter waft through the house. Zosia hums at the table, her small fork clinking against her plate. Kacper gurgles in his bouncer, perfectly content in his own little universe.
The phone rings. Piotr. I swipe to answer, tucking it between my shoulder and ear.
“She’s here!” he says, breathless. “Born at 11:43 a.m. A perfect girl.”
I grin, instantly awake. “What name did you finally settle on?”
“AmelkaKatarzynaSawadzka,” he says, then adds, “after my pain-in-the-ass sister who never stops being tough. Always puts others above her. Who knows, maybe she’ll get that brain of yours, too.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens. I turn slightly away from the stove, blinking fast. Dominik glances over, reads the expression on my face, and without a word reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. Just once. Firm, steady.
I clear my throat. “Shut up, Piotrek. Get home fast before Dominik burns the house down trying to make whatever this is.”
“Nalesniki!” Dominik calls, mock-offended.
Piotr laughs. “We’ll be out in two or three days, tops. Everything’s perfect. Just keep Mama and Tata from turning it into a celebration too fast, okay? We want some recovery time.”
“Deal,” I say. “Kiss Aga for me.”
I hang up. The kitchen feels brighter somehow, full of sugar and butter and the smell of something real and good. Dominik plates the food, thin pancakes rolled with jam, powdered sugar dusting the air. Zosia’s already eating, cheeks sticky, humming.
“It’s delicious,” I tell him, and it is. But what I want, what I ache to do is tell Rafe. About my niece, her middle name. Instead, I take another bite, swallow the instinct, and try to match the calm in Dominik’s eyes when he looks at me. Across the table, Kacper squeals in his bouncer, legs kicking. Zosia leans down to tickle him, then recoils.
“Ew, he drooled on me!”
She wipes her hand dramatically on Dominik’s arm. He stares at the wet patch, deadpan.
“Oh, thank you,córeczka (daughter), for such a gift.”
