Three years later…
I looked down at my newborn daughter, safe and secure in my arms, and I understood Kent in a way I never had before. I didn’t want to leave my daughter to go take a piss, let alone to leave the hospital and turn myself in to the police, not knowing when—or even if—I’d return.
I forgave him years ago. I said all the right things, and I accepted his apology, but I never truly understood. I now knew I never could have, not until I first heard the cries of my beautiful baby girl.
Iris and I married a year after I proposed. We ended up waiting another year to start our family once I realized how difficult it would be to get a new restaurant off the ground. Bacio del Sole opened a year ago, and we began trying shortly after.
Gazing over at my wife, her face red and splotchy, her brown hair stuck to her face with sweat, and her body limp with exhaustion, I fell in love all over again.
I remember as a kid my ma told me, One day you’ll fall in love, dear, and it’ll change you forever.
She was wrong. I didn’t just fall in love once, I fell in love hundreds of times. All with Iris. And every single time, it changed me for the better.
But this? Holding my daughter was all of that times a million.
Iris hadn’t been asleep long, and she made me promise to wake her up if she did drift off, saying she didn’t want to miss a moment. She’d kill me for letting her sleep, but I couldn’t bring myself to wake her. Not after she’d spent fourteen hours in labor.
I walked toward the window. It was a beautiful spring morning, but nature had nothing on my girl. I smiled down at her. She would be a daddy’s girl, just like I had been a mama’s boy.
“Hey, mister, you were supposed to wake me up.”
Grinning, I turned around and walked toward my wife. “My apologies.” I bent to kiss her forehead.
“Yeah, right.” Iris shimmied up the bed and scooted over, giving me room to sit. I angled our daughter her way. “Oh my God, she’s perfect,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears, just like they had every time she looked at her in the last few hours.
“I know. Thank God she looks like you,” I said.
“She’s not even a day old. She looks like—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted. I would have silenced her with a hand over her mouth too, but I was afraid of only holding my daughter with one arm.
“A potato,” she finished with a wide grin.
“How can you say our daughter looks like a potato?” I shook my head, even though my lips tipped up.
“A cute potato,” she amended.
I laughed and pulled the blanket tighter around her.
“We still need a name,” Iris said softly.
“Actually… I’ve been thinking.” I gave her a sheepish grin.
“What?” She smiled, exhaustion pulling at her features, but she’d never looked more radiant. Unable to stop myself, I leaned forward and softly kissed her. When I pulled away she was still smiling and her eyes were closed. They slowly fluttered open.
“So what’s the name?”
I looked down at her, my little girl, my daughter, and felt overwhelmed all over again. “Florence,” I whispered, and just as I did, her little eyes opened and bright blue irises collided with mine. It felt like a sign.
Iris was quiet and I looked up to see her staring between the two of us.
“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” I rushed to assure her. “I was messing around on the computer and saw it. It seemed perfect for how your mom loves gardening and you love Italy—” She quickly leaned forward and placed a finger on my lips.
“It is perfect. I love it.” We both smiled down at the squirming baby in my arms. “Florence Grace Blake. Grace was the name I was playing with.”
I grinned. “Wow, I hope they’re all that easy.” I handed Florence to her mother. Iris carefully took her and held her as close as she could.
“It’s crazy,” I whispered.
“What is?”
“How I ever thought Kent made the wrong choice. It seems so simple now. I’d leave myself dying in a ditch if it meant our daughter was okay.”
Iris looked up. “I know what you mean. The world seems completely different now, doesn’t it? A little brighter.”
“A little scarier,” I countered.
She rolled her eyes. “Some things never change.”
“Thankfully the important stuff did.”
“Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“Like my faith in people.” I definitely wasn’t at Iris’s or my ma’s level, but I had gotten better at giving people the benefit of the doubt. “I’m still a little rusty though.” I was careful as I leaned over and kissed her forehead. When I pulled away, I said, “I hope she always sees the world like you do.”
“She will. We’ll make sure of it, Daddy.” She grinned and looked down at Florence. My eyes followed hers.
Yes. We will…
It was four months later, in the heart of June, and we were finally settling into a routine.
I put Florence down in her crib for her afternoon nap and walked to the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway, I studied the scene before me. Nick and Mirielle were “baking.” He stood at the counter and rolled a piece of dough. My niece, who’d just turned four, was standing on a step stool that Nick bought her for her birthday last month. It was painted with “Nick’s Favorite Assistant.” When Kent explained to her what that meant, I thought he was going to cry. Calla almost did too. I most definitely did.
The two of them were very close. Nick’s lap was the one she always climbed on when we were sitting on the couch. She hugged him the longest, and trailed after him when he left the room.
Mirielle loved her mother and father dearly, but every child needed that extra adult to make them feel special. Nick beat me by a long shot. I didn’t mind; their relationship was one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.
Mirielle was obsessed with the kitchen, and everything in it. Whether that was innate and the reason she loved Nick, or Nick inspired her love for cooking, I wasn’t sure. But I loved watching them together.
Right now, my niece didn’t look too happy. Her lips were downturned as she pounded on the dough.
“Miri,” my husband said, using her special nickname. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She pouted and hit the counter again. With a small grin, Nick put his hands under her armpits and lifted her up before setting her on the counter. Mirielle immediately crossed her arms and started swinging her legs. He brought his hands to her knees, squeezing gently until she stopped kicking.
“What’s gonna happen to me?” she muttered.
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When Fourence becomes your favorite assissant, what about me?” I barely suppressed a giggle at her butchering of our daughter’s name.
“Why do you think that would happen?”
“She’s your baby, you’re gonna love her more.”
Nick scoffed. “Impossible. I love you both the same.”
Mirielle stayed silent, clearly disagreeing.
“You know when we have tea parties?” Yes, Nick had tea parties with her. I just about died every single time, too.
“Yeah?” She perked up a little at the memories.
“What if I told you you could only bring Bubu or Fuzzy Butt?” he asked, using her names for her stuffed hippo and panda.
She groaned, long and loud. “That’s stupid. I can’t pick.”
“Exactly.” Nick grinned. “You can love more than one person, or stuffed animal.”
Her face bunched up in adorable confusion. “You can?”
“Of course. I love you, and I love Florence. Maybe she’ll be your assistant.”
Mirielle sat up straighter, her smile wide. “Really? Daddy says only impotant people have assissants.”
Nick smiled, but didn’t correct any of her words. “That must mean you’re important.”
My niece started kicking her legs again, this time with excitement. Her arms extended toward him and he easily wrapped her in a hug. “I love you, Uncle Nicky,” I barely heard her whisper.
“I love you, too.”
His eyes met mine as I stepped into the kitchen. “Hey, guys.”
Mirielle spun toward me and shouted, “Aunt Iri!” She was smiling as I helped her down and onto her step stool again.
“What are you guys making?”
“Cookies!” she yelled again.
“Shhh… Florence is asleep, and she needs all her rest if she’s going to be your assistant.”
Her smile got even bigger. “Okay,” she whispered. “Where’s Grandma Cat?”
She was talking about Nick’s mom. She and Trevor, her husband of a year and a half, were over here frequently. Our families became close, and now instead of a two-person Sunday dinner, Nick was making Sunday dinners for nine, now ten with Florence. And sometimes thirteen when Lindsay, Kevin, and their two-year-old son, Samuel, came over.
“She’s on her way,” Nick said. He stopped me before I could walk by him. With a grin, he crooked his finger in a come here motion. My smile melted as I moved forward and our lips met.
“Just like sunshine,” he whispered when we broke away. With a soft grin, I leaned my head against his shoulder and watched Mirielle run around the kitchen until she stopped by the tea table we had set up in the corner. She always had a short attention span. More often than not, all she and Nick did were a few prep steps before Nick finished up the rest.
“C’mon,” she whisper-yelled. With his arm wrapped around my shoulders, we walked over and sat down on her tiny chairs. I always chuckled as I watched Nick squeeze into them.
This time I didn’t. I just stared, picturing this table filled with all our children.
It was the greatest future I could ever imagine.