Epilogue #3
Valentina glanced at me, her eyes softer now, less playful. “She sounds nice. I’ll take her too.”
I stepped closer, looking at the small carving skeptically. “You don’t believe this, do you?”
Valentina shrugged. “Maybe I don’t have to. Maybe it just feels good to know there’s something watching over him. Over us.”
I felt a strange twist in my chest. I didn’t know what to say, so instead I just nodded slowly, reaching out to squeeze her hand gently.
The woman behind the counter smiled knowingly, handing Valentina a small, wrapped bundle. “Blessings to your child,” she said sincerely, eyes twinkling at me as if she knew exactly how skeptical I felt.
Valentina thanked her quietly, slipping the bundle into her bag, and as we stepped back onto the crowded sidewalk, I glanced down at her, eyebrow raised.
“You bought dirt.”
She shrugged lightly. “It’s enchanted dirt, Marco. It’s different.”
“Is that right?”
She tilted her chin. “Yes. Now, come on. Your son wants a beignet.”
“Pretty sure his mother wants the beignet.”
“Details.” She tugged me along, glancing back at the shop once more. “But just so you know, if you ruin the magic, I’ll make sure Maman Brigitte curses you.”
“Good to know.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. Because even though I didn’t believe in voodoo or magic dirt, I believed in Valentina—and that, apparently, was enough to convince me to carry overpriced bottles of dried herbs and graveyard dirt through the streets of New Orleans without complaint.
Weeks later, at 2:00 a.m., Valentina woke me up.
Actually, “woke me up” is putting it lightly. She basically ripped my arm out of its socket, nails digging into my skin, until I was fully conscious. I opened my eyes to find her staring down at me, eyes wide and slightly panicked.
“My water broke,” she whispered harshly, as if she were accusing me of something criminal.
“You’re sure?”
She glared at me murderously. “Marco, unless I pissed myself, I’m pretty damn sure.”
I scrambled up, my heart suddenly racing, adrenaline shooting through me. For nine months I’d imagined this moment, prepared for it, mentally rehearsed it—yet suddenly, I felt completely useless, fumbling for keys and shoes.
“You’d better drive fast,” she warned as I helped her into the car, carefully adjusting her seat belt around her swollen belly. “If you’re responsible for me giving birth in a car, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“I’m fully aware.”
When we got to the hospital, everything blurred together—the nurses, the doctors, Valentina’s colorful string of curses as her contractions intensified, then the threats that were aimed equal parts at me and the anesthesiologist who was apparently taking too long to show up.
Hours later, when it was all finally over—when Valentina’s curses had faded into exhausted silence and the chaos had settled into quiet—we sat together in the dimly lit hospital room, everything muted in shades of early-morning gray.
Valentina was sitting up in the bed, pillows stacked behind her, gently cradling our son against her chest. She’d spent the past hour figuring out how to breastfeed.
“How are you holding up?” I asked softly from the chair beside her, careful not to disturb the quiet.
She glanced up at me. “Marco, my nipples feel like they’re on fire, and this child already eats like a teenage linebacker. Define ‘good.’”
I smiled faintly. Even exhausted, even sore and sleep-deprived, she was still Valentina. Sarcastic, irreverent, somehow comforting in her bluntness.
“I’ll grab the nurse—”
“Don’t you dare,” she cut me off, eyes narrowed slightly. “I’m figuring this out.”
I raised both hands in surrender. “Okay. Figure away.”
She looked down at our son, quiet again. He was tiny, impossibly small, cheeks flushed pink against her skin. Watching them together, I felt a sudden rush of something I couldn’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Or relief.
“Hey,” she murmured suddenly, interrupting my thoughts. “You’re staring.”
I shook my head slightly, my voice quiet. “Sorry. Just . . . taking it in.”
“Hmm,” she hummed softly, looking down at our son again, carefully brushing a fingertip along his tiny cheek. “He looks just like you.”
People always said babies looked like their fathers. I figured it was just one of those polite things everyone agreed on, like commenting on the weather when you had nothing else to say. But then he was born, and I understood exactly what they meant.
My son looked exactly like me.
Not just a little. Not just the general shape of his eyes or the slight angle of his jaw. Everything. The set of his mouth, serious and stubborn even while he slept. The dark hair, already thick and wild. And those eyes—my blue eyes.
He looked just like me.
It felt like a cosmic joke. Or maybe something gentler. Something kinder. Something telling me it was finally time to look; time to face whatever I’d been hiding from in every mirror I’d passed since childhood.
All those years avoiding my reflection, dodging mirrors in hallways, bathrooms, and storefront windows. I’d gotten good at it—keeping my head down, eyes away—anything to avoid seeing what Gerard had made me see.
But now, looking at my son, there was no hiding. He was a little mirror, real, breathing, and entirely unavoidable. A tiny, perfect reflection that wasn’t distorted by cruelty or bitterness. Just innocent, staring up at me with eyes exactly like mine—eyes that hadn’t yet learned to look away.
It felt like being split open.
My son had none of my scars, none of my fears.
He wasn’t burdened by foster homes or dark closets or memories I’d spent decades trying to bury.
He was new, fresh, and full of potential.
He was me, without all the parts that hurt.
Without the parts I’d hidden for so long, convinced they made me unworthy.
For the first time, looking at my reflection felt easier. Because now I had something entirely my own. Something that wasn’t borrowed or temporary or given to me out of obligation or pity.
It was permanent.
Real.
Mine.
My son.
Leo. Leo Grey. Valentina had insisted on the name—something strong. It suited him. Suited us.
It was strange to finally have something I couldn’t lose simply because someone had decided they didn’t want me around anymore.
Leo wasn’t conditional. He didn’t come with paperwork or foster placements or temporary guardians.
He was bound to me in a way nothing else had ever been.
Mine to protect, mine to hold, mine to love, even when I was terrified I’d screw it all up.
And Valentina—she’d somehow become mine too.
Stubborn and messy and sarcastic and entirely impossible, but so real, so permanent, I could feel her even when she wasn’t there.
She was the opposite of everything I’d ever known.
Not temporary, not guarded, not waiting to walk away at the first sign of trouble. She’d stayed. She’d chosen me.
And now I had a family.
For the first time in my life, the things that mattered couldn’t just vanish. They couldn’t be ripped away because someone had changed their mind. They couldn’t slip through my fingers like everything else had.
They belonged to me as much as I belonged to them.
And standing there holding Leo, with Valentina now sleeping softly beside us, I finally understood what it meant to truly have something worth keeping. Something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for. Something—someone—worth becoming better for.
The End