Chanter 23
Chapter 23
If someone had told me years ago that I’d be standing here, barefoot in my own kitchen, hands resting on a round belly that made me waddle like a duck, I would have laughed. Or cried. Maybe both.
But here I was. Nadine Smith. Not a broken woman in someone else’s shadow, but the woman I’d pieced back together myself, with Niccolo’s hands steady on mine when I needed it most.
Pregnancy was nothing like the pretty photos in magazines. Some days I glowed. Some days I glared. My hormones were a swirling mess of too much love, too much fear, too much of everything.
One night, when I was about six months along, I found myself sitting at the edge of our bed, staring at Niccolo’s phone like it was my sworn enemy. He came out of the shower to find me fuming.
“Darling…” he asked carefully, towel draped over his shoulders. “Why does my phone look like it’s about to be flung out the window?”
“Who’s Charlotte?” I demanded. My voice was embarrassingly squeaky.
“Charlotte?” He blinked, then started laughing which only made me scowl harder. “You mean my cousin? The one sending baby clothes ideas?”
“Oh.” My cheeks burned so hot I thought they might fry my brain. “That Charlotte.”
He came over and knelt in front of me, water still dripping from his hair. “You could have just asked me.”
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“I know,” I muttered. “I just these hormones make me insane. I’m sorry.”
He kissed my knee, then my swollen belly, then my lips. “Don’t apologize for loving me so much you’d fight an imaginary mistress/named Charlotte.”
I laughed so hard I cried. He held me until I calmed down, whispering promises I knew he’d keep: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You’re mine. I’m yours. Always.
By the last month, I was done. Done with waddling. Done with peeing every ten minutes. Done with my feet being three times their normal size. Done with the way Niccolo treated me like spun glass though I secretly loved it.
“You don’t have to rub my feet every night,” I told him once, feeling guilty as he massaged my ankles.
“Yes, I do,” he said, pressing a kiss to my shin. “Because they hurt. And because I love you. And because you keep threatening to name our child ‘Spaghetti‘ if I don’t.”
I snorted. He wasn’t wrong. We’d fought so many times about baby names that we’d resorted to calling our bump Spaghetti until the very end.
The night it finally happened, the full moon was high and bright over our little house by the sea. I woke up to a tightening in my belly, one that didn’t go away like the Braxton Hicks contractions did.
Chapter 22
I shook Niccolo awake. “Hey… I think it’s time.”
He bolted upright like someone had lit him on fire. “Time? Time–time? Oh god. Okay. Okay, breathe. I’ll get the bag. Do you want tea? No! No tea, contractions!”
I watched him flail around our bedroom, half–dressed and wide–eyed, and I laughed even through the pain. “Niccolo, baby, I’m the one who’s supposed to panic.”
He knelt beside me, his hands trembling just a little as he brushed hair from my face. “No panic. We’ve got this. You’ve got this. I’m here.”
Labor was not glamorous. It was sweat and tears and an ache so deep I thought it would never end. I yelled. I cursed him out. At one point, I sobbed that I wanted a cheeseburger more than anything.
And through it all, Niccolo never let go of my hand. Not once.
When the doctor finally told me to push, I saw my whole life flash behind my eyes, not the ugly parts, but the strong parts. The girl who ran away. The girl who started over. The girl who learned that love could be kind.
Then the tiniest cry filled the room and every ounce of pain turned to something golden and endless.
When they laid our daughter on my chest, she was pink and wrinkly and perfect. I looked at Niccolo, who was crying as hard as I was, and laughed through my tears.
“Spaghetti, huh?” I teased.
He shook his head, his eyes locked on the little bundle in my arms. “No. She’s Hope. Because that’s what you are to me. And what she’ll always be.”
We took her home two days later. The house smelled like fresh flowers and the ocean. Claudia fussed over me like I was still her baby, while Niccolo fussed over both of us. Some nights, Hope wouldn’t sleep unless she was tucked between us, her tiny fists clutching my shirt.
And every time I woke up, there was Niccolo, already awake, staring at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.
One morning, as the sun rose pink and gentle, I found myself crying again. Not from sadness – but from the sheer, overwhelming softness of it all.
“Hey,” Niccolo whispered, gathering me close. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, pressing my lips to his temple. “Absolutely nothing. For once, everything’s just… right.”
In that quiet house by the sea, with our daughter snoring gently against my chest and Niccolo’s heartbeat steady beneath my palm, I finally understood.
Some stories don’t have fairytale beginnings. But they can still have the happiest endings.
