Epilogue I
GIANNI
"Red light."
"I see it."
"You're not stopping."
"I see it, Violet."
"Gianni, that was a red—"
"Do you want to have this baby in a Lexus, or do you want to have her in a hospital?"
"I want to have her in a hospital where we arrive alive—"
She grips the door handle and breathes through another contraction. Violet handles it with the toughness she brings to every challenge of her life and, nervous as I might be, there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll ace this one like all the others.
Her water broke twenty-three minutes ago while we were standing in the kitchen. She was eating ice cream, Patrick’s latest kindergarten masterpiece on the counter in front of her. Then her eyes widened and she calmly placed the spoon down in front of her.
“Either I just spilled something, or we need to go to the hospital.” Her tone was one of calm practicality, as if she were discussing what to pick up at the store later.
I have not been calm since.
"Next left," she says. "Then two blocks."
"I know where the hospital is."
"You just ran a red light. I'm not confident you know where anything is right now."
I take the left. Two blocks. The emergency entrance is lit up like a runway, and I pull in, kill the engine, and I'm at her door before she's gotten her seat belt off.
"I can walk," she says.
"You're not walking."
"Gianni—"
I carry her through the doors and a nurse sees a pregnant woman carried in the arms of a man who looks like he’s about to start a riot and, like magic, a wheelchair is soon in front of us. Violet is transferred, paperwork appears, and someone asks me if I’m the father.
“I am.” Two simple words. But God, do they feel good to say.
They take us up to a delivery floor and then to a private room with bright lights and beeping machines. Then she’s in the bed and I realize very quickly that for all my power, for all my wealth, all I can do in these moments is take her hand and just be there.
"You're squeezing very hard," I tell her.
"You're complaining?"
"Observing."
"Observe quieter."
She bears down through the next contraction, her grip crushing my knuckles together, and I don't move. After everything these hands have done—the violence and the tenderness and the thousand things in between—this is the best purpose they've ever served. A place for her to hold on.
The doctor is calm and the nurses are efficient. Violet is focused, breathing, working with her body to deliver this child, and as she does, all I can do is watch and understand that what she’s doing is the single most amazing thing I’ve seen in my life.
"One more," the doctor says. "Big push."
Violet locks eyes with me and she pushes. And then I hear a sound. It’s small but furious, a cry that fills the room and makes my heart clench in a way it never has before.
"It's a girl," the doctor announces with a smile.
The nurse places her on Violet’s chest. She’s tiny and red-faced, screaming with indignant rage at being pulled from somewhere quiet and warm and thrust into all of this.
Her eyes are squeezed shut and her fists are clenched.
She has dark hair like mine, and I can already tell that the shape of her mouth is Violet’s.
"Hi, Emily," Violet whispers. She's crying and laughing and holding our daughter with hands steadier than mine. "Hi, baby girl. We've been waiting for you."
I reach out. One finger extended. I touch Emily's palm—barely, the lightest possible contact—and her hand closes around my finger.
"She's strong," the doctor says.
"She's a Russo," Violet says. "Of course she's strong."
I look at my daughter, at her clenched fists and the dark hair plastered against her scalp.
Emily Russo. We picked the name weeks ago—I lobbied for something Italian, Violet countered with Emily, and I conceded because the way Violet looked when she said the name Emily is something I want to see again and again.
"Emily," I say. Just to hear it. Just to make it real.
"Emily," Violet repeats. She looks up at me. Her face is flushed, her hair is everywhere, and she is so perfect and radiant. "You okay?"
“I’m…” I realize that the honest answer is I’m not OK. I’m completely undone, sitting in a plastic chair in a delivery room with the woman I love holding our daughter, and somewhere across the city our son is waiting to hear the news of his new sister.
It’s incredible. All of it.
And it’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
But this moment isn’t about me. It’s about Violet and Emily.
"I'm perfect," I say.
She smiles and closes her eyes. Emily's crying softens.
My phone buzzes. Then again. Then a cascade—the vibration of a family mobilizing.
I glance at the screen. Kylie: IS SHE HERE?? SEND PHOTOS IMMEDIATELY OR I HACK YOUR PHONE AND FIND THEM MYSELF. Spackman: Congratulations. On my way. Nina: Patrick knows. He's asking if Emily likes dinosaurs. Rudi: Dios mío, mijo. We're coming.
They’re all coming, and within the hour the room will be full.
But not yet. Right now, the room is quiet. Right now, it's just us.
I lean forward. Press my lips to Emily's forehead—so small, so warm, so impossibly new.
"You have no idea what's waiting for you," I whisper. "And I can’t wait to be there for you while you learn about it all."
I sit back. Emily's hand is still wrapped around my finger. Violet's breathing has evened out—not asleep, just resting, her hand on our daughter's back, her face turned toward me.
"She's got your hair," she murmurs.
"She's got your fight."
Violet smiles without opening her eyes.
The machines beep. Emily breathes. And I sit in a plastic chair in a hospital room and hold my daughter's hand and finally understand what all of it was for.