Zosia shrieks as he scoops her up, tickling until she’s gasping with laughter. I laugh too, I can’t help it. The sound bursts out of me,lighter than I’ve felt in months. For today, it’s just this: coffee, laughter, and the warmth of a world that finally feels safe again.
The first weeks after Amelka’s birth pass in a kind of warm blur. The first few days are all hospital visits, cooing, and quiet awe at her beauty. Pictures galore. Natalia is in her element. Once they’re released, everyone takes their turn going over to help or at least to hold her and pretend they’re helping.
I go first, then Dominik and Zosia. We bring soup and diapers and end up staying half the day, because Aga keeps falling asleep mid-sentence and Piotr can’t figure out the sterilizer.
Then Natalia takes her turn and swears she’s never having children as we pass shifts.
“He’s a machine,” she says of Kacper, dramatically. “A machine that produces only disgusting things, poop, pee, drool, and tears.”
I laugh until I cry.
Then Mama and Tata take their turn, bringing half the kitchen with them, soups, cutlets, enough bread to feed a small village. Piotr texts the family group chat,We don’t need another loaf, Mama, we need sleep,but she doesn’t listen.
The plan for the weekend starts almost immediately.
“To wet the baby’s head,” Tata says while we prepare family dinner, eyes bright. “A proper celebration!”
They’ll drink good Polish vodka and raise their glasses.Na zdrowie!To good health, long life, and a beautiful future. To my tiny namesake. To the stubborn, ridiculous, unshakable Sawadzka clan.
Mama insists everyone bring one bottle and two dishes, which she claims will be “more than enough to feed an army,” then adds three more recipes to her list anyway. “No one will go hungry,” she declares. “Not under my roof.”
I’m slicing cucumbers for salad when Dominik follows me in, leaning against the counter, watching everyone move around in a tangle of energy.
“It’s nice,” he says. “Feels peaceful again. After… everything.”
His voice trails off. He doesn’t say it, but I know whateverythingmeans. The stalker. The blood. The hospital. Rafe. The wordless wreckage between then and now.
He notices the way my shoulders tense and reaches out, fingers brushing my arm. His touch is comforting, solid, the kind of contact that doesn’t demand anything from me. When I look up, his eyes are soft with worry, with the kind of love that’s known me since we were kids, before the music hooked me, before the heartbreak, before all of it.
Somehow, the weight I’ve been carrying changes shape. Not gone, not even close but lighter by a fraction. In the next room, Mama laughs at something Piotr says, and Zosia bursts into a song she only vaguely remembers. Life keeps moving, and I stand there in the middle of it, grateful,still here.
By Saturday, the house feels like a song.Aga, pale but radiant, holding Amelka like she’s still afraid to set her down. Piotr, beaming in that stunned new-father way. Natalia pretends she’s only come for the food, then sneaks kisses from the baby when she thinks no one’s looking. Mama moves through the kitchen like a general, commanding the pierogi operation. Tata pouring shots before noon. Dominik is definitely partaking. Zosia squeals as she runs through the house. Neighbors stop by, even Father Marek. It’s all lightness and energy. Perfect for baby Amelka.
By the time evening falls, the table’s covered in plates and laughter and things that sparkle.
We drink to anything we can think of,Na zdrowie!
To Amelka.
To health.
To love that survives what tries to break it.
To stubborn Sawadzka blood.
Vodka warms everything. I lose count after the third toast, though I’m fairly sure Mama’s been replacing hers with water for a while.
I slip outside when no one’s watching, glass still in hand. The air is cool, soft against my flushed cheeks. The stars are clear tonight, the kind of sky that makes you believe in patterns, in fate, in people meant to find each other even after everything. I sit on the porch steps, phone in hand. For a long moment, I just stare at it.Rafe.Then, because the vodka has made me brave or stupid or both, I start typing.
Hey. We’re celebrating my niece tonight. Her name’s Amelka Katarzyna Sawadzka. Piotr gave her my name. It made me cry. Everyone’s singing, Mama’s threatening to feed the neighbors if we don’t finish the pierogi. It’s loud and happy and I keep thinking how much you’d like it, if you were here. I hope wherever you are, the sky’s as beautiful as this one. That we're under the same one again, for a little while. You deserve that kind of night.
I stare at the words for a long time, thumb hovering. Then I hit send.
The message ticks away into the dark, tiny, irreversible. I tilt my head back, breathe in the cool air, and for a second I swear I can hear him: that melodic laugh, the one that always sounded like the first chord before a song began.
Inside, someone starts another toast. I wipe my eyes, laugh under my breath, and go back in. Mama shoves a plate into my hands. Zosia’s dancing in circles with a half-eaten cookie. And for tonight, at least, the ache and the joy can share the same space.
Sunlight finds me before I’m ready for it.It slips past the curtains and straight across my face, and for a second I just lie there,trying to remember why my head hurts and why my cheeks feel tight from smiling. Then I hear the kettle downstairs, the low murmur of Mama’s radio, and it all comes back, the laughter, the songs, the toasts that went on too long.
