Chapter 16
CHRISTINA
Seven pounds, four ounces.
The nurse said the number like it was just information, data to record on a chart, but Christina couldn’t stop repeating it in her head. Seven pounds, four ounces. That was the weight of her whole world now, wrapped in a hospital blanket and nestled against her chest.
Dark hair. Not honey-blonde like Christina’s. Not light brown like Tara’s or Evan’s or Ally’s.
Dark, like Marco’s.
And her skin—Christina had expected the ruddy pink of most newborns, but Violet’s complexion had already settled into something warmer.
Golden, almost olive-toned. Nothing like Christina’s own pale skin that only tanned reluctantly in summer and faded to near-translucent by October unless she stayed in the sun.
This was Mediterranean coloring, the kind that came from generations of Italian sun.
Christina traced a finger along Violet’s cheek, impossibly soft, and felt her throat tighten.
The baby stirred, eyes fluttering open for just a moment—that unfocused newborn gaze, the blue-gray color that all babies had at first. But there was something in the shape , something in the way they seemed to look right through Christina, that made her hold her breath.
You’re going to have his eyes, she thought. His skin, his hair. In a few weeks, a few months, everyone’s going to wonder.
“She’s perfect.”
Christina looked up to find Tara standing beside the bed, tears streaming down her face despite the enormous smile.
Her mother had been there through all of it—holding her hand through contractions, wiping sweat from her forehead, whispering encouragement when Christina was sure she couldn’t do it anymore.
She looked almost as exhausted as Christina felt.
“Do you want to hold her?”
Tara’s hands trembled as Christina transferred the tiny bundle into her arms. The room smelled of the flowers that had started arriving an hour ago—roses from Will, a huge bouquet from her sister, wildflowers from Francesca and Bo, a potted lavender plant from Dora and Sam that sat on the windowsill.
Underneath it all was that other smell, the one Christina couldn’t quite name—warm and sweet and new. The smell of her daughter.
“Hello, Violet,” Tara whispered, rocking gently. “I’m your grandmother. Your Nana. We’re going to have so much fun together, you and me.”
The door opened, and Ally slipped in, followed by Evan and Emily. Emily had Grace on her hip—the baby was five months old now, wide awake and curious about all the commotion. The room suddenly felt very full.
“Is that her?” Ally crossed to Tara’s side, peering down at the bundle. “Oh my gosh, she’s so tiny. Was I ever that tiny?”
“Smaller,” Tara said. “You were five pounds even. The doctors were worried, but you came out screaming and never stopped.”
“That tracks.” Ally grinned, then looked at Christina. “How are you feeling?”
She considered the question. Every muscle in her body ached. Her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. She’d been stitched up in places she didn’t want to think about, and the mesh underwear the nurse had given her was possibly the least dignified thing she’d ever worn.
“Amazing,” she said, and meant it.
Evan appeared at her bedside, bending to kiss her forehead. “You did well, little sister.”
“Thanks.” She grabbed his hand, squeezed. “Where’s Ryan?”
As if on cue, the door swung open again and Ryan burst in, a huge grin on his face. His eyes went straight to Christina, then to the baby in Tara’s arms.
“Is that—”
“Come meet your niece,” Tara said softly.
Ryan approached as if the baby might shatter if he moved too fast. He peered down at Violet with an expression Christina had never seen on his face before—wonder, mixed with something that looked almost like fear.
“She’s so little,” he said. “Are they supposed to be that small?”
“Seven pounds, four ounces,” Christina said. “That’s actually pretty average.”
“Can I—” He stopped, swallowed. “I’ve never held a baby before.”
“Sit down.” Tara nodded toward the chair beside Christina’s bed. “I’ll show you how.”
Christina watched as her mother carefully transferred Violet into Ryan’s arms, adjusting his grip, showing him how to support the head. Ryan sat frozen, barely breathing, staring down at the tiny face like she was the most remarkable thing he’d ever seen.
“She looks like you,” Ryan said quietly. “Around the mouth and cheeks, I think.”
Christina’s stomach tightened. Maybe, then again, she and Marco both had high cheekbones.
But everywhere else—the dark hair, the golden skin, the shape of her eyes, the particular curve of her nose—that was all Marco.
Features that would become more pronounced as she grew.
Features that would eventually require an explanation.
But not today. Today, she was just going to hold her daughter and let herself be happy.
“My turn.” Emily had handed Grace to Evan and was making grabby hands toward Ryan. “Come on, I need to smell her head. It’s a thing. New baby smell is like a drug.”
Ryan relinquished Violet with obvious reluctance, and Emily cradled her with practiced ease. She bent her face close to Violet’s head and inhaled deeply.
“Oh, that’s the good stuff,” she murmured. “Grace is already losing hers. They should bottle this.”
“That’s weird,” Evan said, bouncing Grace on his hip.
“You did it too. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
Christina laughed, the sound rusty in her throat. When had she last laughed? Yesterday morning, maybe, before the cramping started. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Movement in the corner caught her eye. Sam had slipped in at some point—Christina hadn’t even noticed—and was curled up in the chair by the window, a sketchbook open on her knees. Her pencil moved in quick, sure strokes.
“Sam? What are you drawing?”
The teenager looked up, cheeks flushing pink. “Sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt. I just—the light in here is really beautiful right now, and you looked so...” She trailed off, gesturing vaguely. “I can stop.”
“No, it’s fine. May I see?”
Sam hesitated, then crossed to the bed and held out the sketchbook.
It was her—hair tangled, face exhausted, hospital gown rumpled—but Sam had captured something Christina hadn’t known was visible. The way she’d been looking at Violet. The sketch was rough, unfinished, but it was somehow more honest than any photograph could have been.
“This is incredible,” Christina said. “Sam, this is really incredible.”
“I want to do a painting,” Sam said, the words rushing out. “A real one, like the one I did for the nursery. If that’s okay. For you to keep.”
Christina looked at the sketch again—at herself, at the tiny bundle in her arms, at the raw love Sam had somehow translated into pencil strokes on paper.
“I would love that.”
Ally appeared with a cup of ice chips, pressing them into Christina’s hand. “Drink. The nurse said you need to stay hydrated.”
Christina let an ice chip melt on her tongue, cool and soothing.
The exhaustion was catching up with her.
Her eyelids kept drooping, her body desperate for sleep after the marathon of the past twenty-four hours.
But every time she closed her eyes, she forced them open again. She didn’t want to miss anything.
“Hey.” Ally perched on the edge of the bed, voice low. “Rest. We’ll wake you up if anything happens.”
“I can’t. What if she needs me?”
“Then we’ll wake you up.” Ally squeezed her hand. “You just did the hardest thing a human body can do, sis. You’re allowed to sleep.”
“Just a few minutes,” she finally said. “Promise you’ll wake me?”
“Promise.”
Christina let her eyes close. The sounds of the room washed over her—Tara’s soft voice, Emily and Evan debating something about sleep schedules, Ryan asking Sam about the sketch, something about making a frame for the painting, Will’s low voice somewhere near the door.
The smell of flowers and lavender and that sweet, indescribable newborn scent.
Seven pounds, four ounces.
She was asleep before she could finish the thought.
When Christina woke, the light in the room had shifted. Late afternoon, maybe—golden and warm through the window blinds. Someone had dimmed the overhead lights. The flowers seemed to have multiplied.
Violet was crying.
Christina was sitting up before she was fully conscious, arms already reaching. “Give her to me.”
Tara was there, transferring the squalling bundle into Christina’s arms. “She’s been fussy for about ten minutes. I think she’s hungry.”
The nurse had shown her how to do this before—in that blur of time right after birth, when everything had been overwhelming and new. Christina fumbled with her hospital gown, got Violet positioned, and felt the strange pull as the baby latched on.
It hurt more than she’d expected. But Violet’s cries stopped immediately, replaced by contented little gulping sounds, and Christina found she didn’t care about the discomfort.
“There you go,” she murmured. “That’s it, sweet girl.”
The room had emptied while she slept. Only Tara remained, settled in the chair beside the bed with a cup of coffee. The shadows under her eyes said she hadn’t slept at all.
“Where is everyone?”
“Cafeteria. Ryan was starving—I don’t think he ate anything all day. Will took him and Sam down to get food. Ally had to meet a new client, and Evan and Emily went to change Grace.” Tara smiled. “It’s been quite a day.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost five. You slept for about six hours.”
Six hours. Christina looked down at Violet, at the tiny face scrunched in concentration as she nursed. Six hours of her daughter’s life that she’d missed.
“The pediatrician came by while you were sleeping,” Tara said, reading her expression. “Everything looks perfect. She’s healthy, her reflexes are good, and her hearing test came back normal.”
Christina nodded, not trusting her voice.
“She has your chin,” Tara added. “The little point at the bottom. You had the same thing when you were born.”
Christina forced a smile. Her chin. Her mouth and cheeks, according to Ryan.
But everything else—the dark hair, the warm golden skin that looked nothing like Christina’s fair complexion, the shape of her eyes, the set of her brow—those belonged to a man three thousand miles away who didn’t know his daughter existed.
She should tell her mom. She knew she should. Every day she kept this secret, it grew heavier. And her mom and family deserved to know who Violet’s father was.
But every time Christina opened her mouth to say the words, she imagined what would come next. The questions. The concerns. The well-meaning advice about lawyers and custody and Marco’s rights as a father. And then the Castellano family would find out, and everything would change.
So she kept quiet. She just held her daughter and let the moment stretch out, golden and warm like the light through the window.
Violet finished nursing and unlatched, milk-drunk and sleepy. Christina lifted her to her shoulder, patting her back the way the nurse had shown her, and was rewarded with a tiny burp.
“Professional,” Tara said, grinning.
“Beginner’s luck.”
Violet’s eyes were open again, that unfocused newborn gaze drifting around the room.
Blue-gray, like all newborns. But Christina could already see it—the shape that would sharpen as she grew, the color that would deepen and shift.
In a few months, those eyes would be green with gold flecks. Unmistakably Marco’s.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Ryan poked his head in.
“Hey, Sam wants to know if she can come back and do a few more sketches. She’s being weird about it, but I can tell she really wants to.”
Christina smiled. “Tell her yes. And tell everyone else they can come back too.”
Ryan disappeared, and a few minutes later the room began filling again—Ally with a bag of snacks, Evan checking his phone, Emily and Grace, Will with more flowers, Sam clutching her sketchbook.
They arranged themselves around the room, and Christina found herself at the center of something she hadn’t known she needed.
Sam was already sketching again, perched on the windowsill this time, her pencil moving in quick strokes. She’d angled herself to catch Christina and Violet in profile, the golden early evening light falling across them both.
“That’s the one,” Sam murmured, more to herself than anyone. “That’s the painting.”
The nurse appeared in the doorway. “Visiting hours end in thirty minutes. And Christina, the lactation consultant wants to stop by one more time before the night shift.”
“I’m staying,” Tara announced before Christina could ask. “The nurses said it’s fine. That chair folds out into something that’s almost a bed.”
“Mom, you need sleep too—”
“And I’ll get it. Right here.” Tara’s voice was gentle but firm. “You’re not doing this alone. Not tonight, not ever.”
A parade of goodbyes followed—kisses pressed to tiny fingers, promises to return first thing in the morning. One by one, they filed out until only her mom remained.
Christina settled Violet in the bassinet beside her bed—clear plastic sides, so she could see her daughter even with her eyes half-closed—and sank back against the pillows.
Tomorrow there would be discharge paperwork and car seats and the terrifying reality of taking a newborn home.
Tomorrow she would have to figure out feeding schedules and diaper changes and how to function on no sleep.
The lactation consultant was due any minute, and there were forms to sign, questions to answer.
But for now, Violet was sleeping three feet away. Her mother was here. And that was going to have to be enough.
Tara was already pulling the chair into its bed position, arranging a thin hospital blanket over herself.
“Mom?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Tara reached over and squeezed her hand. “Get some rest. The consultant will be here soon, and then you need to sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”
Christina closed her eyes, listening to Violet’s tiny breaths, to the distant beeping of monitors in the hallway, to her mother settling into the makeshift bed.
Tomorrow. She’d worry about tomorrow when it came.