Epilogue – Almeria
The late afternoon sunlight streams through the nursery window, painting everything in golden hues.
Soft coos fill the air, mixing with the faint rustling of the curtains and the distant hum of the ocean breeze.
I sit in the rocking chair Gaspare built by hand during my final trimester, cradling our daughter against my chest.
Our daughter.
The words still feel surreal on my tongue.
Tiny and perfect, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, her tiny fist curls into my shirt as she sleeps, her downy dark hair already wild despite how often I smooth it.
Gianna.
Our little miracle.
Gaspare had insisted on the name the moment he laid eyes on her — something beautiful, strong, a name that could withstand anything the world threw at it.
I shift slightly, rocking us back and forth, memorizing the way her weight feels in my arms.
Across the room, Luca tiptoes closer, wide-eyed and reverent in a way I’ve never seen before.
He peeks over the side of the chair, staring at his baby sister with the awe usually reserved for superheroes and spaceships.
“Can I hold her?” he whispers.
I smile and nod.
Carefully, slowly, Gaspare steps in behind Luca, helping him climb into a chair beside me.
Together, we position Gianna in Luca’s arms, her tiny head fitting perfectly against his shoulder.
He stares down at her, wonder painting his features.
“She’s so small,” he breathes.
“Yeah,” Gaspare murmurs, ruffling his hair. “You were once too, you know.”
Luca’s eyes widen in disbelief, and I laugh softly.
Gaspare crouches down beside them, one hand resting protectively on Luca’s back, the other gently adjusting Gianna’s blanket.
The sight of them — my boys, my world, wrapped around this tiny, perfect little girl — makes my throat ache.
I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay.
Gaspare catches my eye and smiles — a real, open, soul-deep smile that still makes my heart stutter even after all this time.
“You were right, you know,” he says, voice low and full of awe.
“About what?”
He leans closer, brushing a kiss to Gianna’s tiny forehead.
“That it would be a girl.”
I beam, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear smugly.
“I’ll try not to rub it in too much,” I tease.
He chuckles and rises, pulling me — rocking chair and all — closer with one strong arm until he can kiss my temple.
“Rub it in all you want,” he whispers. “You gave me her. You gave me everything.”
I close my eyes, letting the warmth of his words sink into my soul.
The house is different now.
Fuller.
Louder in some ways — Luca’s giggles, Gianna’s soft cries, Gaspare’s deep, rumbling laughter when he plays along with their antics.
But quieter too.
No more fear lurking in every corner.
No more running.
Just us.
Just love.
The life I once thought I could never have blooms around me, messy and wild and heartbreakingly beautiful.
And as Luca hums softly to Gianna, and Gaspare wraps his arms around both of us, I know:
This is what forever feels like.