50. Lucia
50
LUCIA
I stand in the doorway of what will be the nursery, arms crossed, watching Saverio as he wrestles with what looks like a crib that’s determined to fight him at every turn. He’s got the instruction manual in one hand, a screwdriver in the other, and a scowl on his face that would scare off anyone else. The room is a mess of cardboard boxes, packing materials, and scattered pieces of baby furniture. Soft afternoon light filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the pale yellow walls we painted last week. Saverio mutters something under his breath, a string of colorful Italian curses, as he tries to fit two pieces together that clearly don’t want to cooperate.
“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” I ask, trying to suppress the grin tugging at my lips.
Saverio shoots me a look, the kind of look that says I’ve handled mob deals, I can handle a crib . It’s a mixture of determination and exasperation, with just a hint of wounded pride. “No,” he grumbles, returning to the half-assembled crib with renewed focus. “I’ve got this.” His jaw clenches as he fiddles with a stubborn bolt, his knuckles whitening around the screwdriver.
I lean against the doorframe, rubbing my belly absentmindedly, feeling the gentle curve beneath my fingertips. The nursery is one of those things I’ve thought about a lot over the past few weeks, my mind constantly drifting to this room and its possibilities. I’ve imagined it a hundred different ways—what it’ll look like, how we’ll decorate it, the perfect balance of playful and serene. I’ve pondered color schemes and themes, debating between whimsical animals or soothing nature scenes. Most importantly, I’ve considered how to make it cozy for both Saverio and me because we’ll be spending a lot of time here this summer, rocking our newborn, changing diapers, and stealing moments of quiet wonder. I want it to feel warm and welcoming, like a safe little bubble where our baby can grow up surrounded by love.
But watching Saverio struggle with baby furniture? That’s the best part.
“Are you sure the instructions don’t say you’re supposed to use that extra piece over there?” I point to a wooden panel sitting off to the side.
Saverio glances over at the wooden panel and frowns, his brow furrowing in confusion. “That’s not—“ He pauses mid-sentence, squinting at the manual clutched in his hand. His eyes dart between the instructions and the half-assembled crib, realization slowly dawning on his face. After a moment, he lets out a long, exasperated groan. “Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
I burst out laughing, unable to hold it in anymore. He’s always so serious and in control, but right now, he looks completely out of his element. It’s refreshing to see him like this—determined but a little lost. It’s what us normal people feel.
“Let me help you,” I say, walking over to him. “You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep trying to do it alone.”
He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath but doesn’t stop me as I kneel down next to him, taking the manual from his hands. Our fingers brush for a moment, and I feel a small jolt of electricity between us. Pushing the sensation aside, I flip through the pages, carefully reviewing the instructions and nodding along as I piece together the puzzle in my mind. “See?” I say, leaning in closer and pointing to the intricate diagram on the page. “That L-shaped piece goes here, connecting these two parts. And then this curved section attaches to form the side rail.”
Saverio watches me, his scowl softening as I show him where he went wrong. “I thought you said I had to build it,” he mutters, but there’s no real bite in his voice.
“You do,” I tease, handing him back the manual. “I’m just helping you get there.”
We work together for the next half hour, Saverio listening intently to my suggestions and gradually implementing them. Slowly but surely, the crib begins to take shape before our eyes. I can see the change in him, too—his initial frustration melting away like ice in the sun as he gets the hang of the assembly process. He’s focused and determined; his brow furrowed in concentration as he fits each piece into place with growing confidence. But there’s something else there, too. Pride, I think. It’s evident in the slight upturn of his lips and the way he sits back every so often to admire his handiwork. As we continue, our teamwork becomes more seamless, and I find myself enjoying building something that will soon cradle our child.
Once we finally get the last piece in place, Saverio steps back, wiping his hands on his jeans and surveying his work like he’s just built the world’s most important piece of furniture. And given that it’s the place our baby will sleep, in a way, it is.
He circles the crib, running his fingers along the smooth edges and testing the stability of each corner. His eyes are alight with a mixture of accomplishment and awe, as if he’s only now realizing the significance of what we’ve created together. I can’t help but smile, feeling a swell of emotion in my chest as I watch him silently count the slats and double-check the locking mechanism on the drop side.
“There,” he says, his voice gruff but filled with satisfaction. “Crib. Done.”
I smile as I get to my feet, leaning into him and resting my head on his arm as we stare at the crib. “It’s perfect.”
He slips the arm around my waist, his hand resting protectively on my belly. “It better be. Our son’s going to sleep in that.”
I nod, feeling the warmth of his touch. It’s moments like these—simple, quiet moments—that remind me why I fell in love with him in the first place. Yes, there’s still so much we need to figure out, and yes, his world is still complicated. But when it comes to us, to this baby, he’s all in.