30. Anika
— ? —
Anika
The gallery was packed for the closing night.
Six months had passed since Amalfi. Six months of changes, adjustments, a whole new life being built from the pieces of the old one. I was eight months pregnant now, huge and uncomfortable and happier than I’d ever been.
Neil stood at the front of the room. He’d asked for the microphone, which was unusual. Neil Franco didn’t give speeches at art shows even though I tried to make him. He wrote checks and shook hands and let other people do the talking.
Advertise Franco Holdings, this is your chance, I’d say to him five minutes before the event closes.
But tonight was different.
“I want to thank everyone for coming,” he said. His voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. Public vulnerability and genuine emotion. “This show has been… meaningful. To my wife and to me.”
He paused. Looked at me across the room.
“Most of you know the story. The diary. The separation. The very public meltdown of a marriage everyone thought was perfect.” A ripple of uncomfortable laughter.
“What you might not know is that my wife sold four paintings to fund my company. When I was at rock bottom. When I had nothing but a failed business and a dream. She believed in me before anyone else did.”
I felt tears prick my eyes. He’d never told anyone that story.
“For years, I repaid her by working late and forgetting her birthday. By checking my phone during dinner and missing anniversaries. By being physically present and emotionally absent.” He took a breath. “That ends now. My job now is supporting my wife and being a father to our daughter.”
Applause went through the crowd.
“I don’t expect anyone to understand how-” his voice cracked but he continued. “-how meaningful this is to me. I’ve learned that success means nothing if you lose what matters most. I almost lost everything. I’m not making that mistake again.”
He set down the microphone.
I crossed the room. Didn’t care about the cameras or the crowd or the whispers. I put my hands on his face and kissed him in front of everyone.
“Take me home,” I said.
***
Two weeks later at the nursery.
Neil was on the floor, surrounded by IKEA pieces. The instructions were spread out around him like a crime scene. He’d been at it for three hours.
“This is wrong,” he said, holding up two pieces that clearly didn’t fit together.
“Did you follow the pictures?”
“The pictures are Swedish lies.”
I watched from the rocking chair, one hand on my belly. The baby was kicking, restless, probably as impatient as her father.
“You could just hire someone,” I said.
“I’m building my daughter’s crib myself.” He tried to force the pieces together. They still didn’t fit. “Even if it kills me.”
“It might.”
“Your faith in me is inspiring.”
Another hour passed. He swore in at least three languages. Called Giovani twice for moral support. Finally, somehow, the crib took shape.
It was crooked. Visibly, obviously crooked. The rails didn’t quite line up, one of the legs was slightly shorter than the others.
“I built a crib,” Neil said, sitting back on his heels.
“You built something,” I agreed.
“It’s a crib. It has four walls and a mattress thing. That’s a crib.”
“If you say so.”
He helped me up from the rocker. We stood there together, looking at his creation.
“It’s terrible,” he said.
“Easy to pretend it’s perfect.”
“It’s going to collapse.”
“Probably.”
He pulled out his phone. Looked at it, then looked at me. Put it in the drawer of the changing table.
“Giovani’s fixing it tomorrow,” he said.
“I knew it would come to this.”
“I tried.”
“That’s the point.”
Later, in bed, his hand rested on my belly. The baby kicked against his palm, and his face did something complicated. Wonder and terror in equal measure.
“She kicked,” he said.
“She does that.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes. Mostly it just feels weird.”
“What if she hates me?”
I turned to look at him. At this man who had changed everything about his life to be here in this moment. Who still checked his phone sometimes but caught himself. Who still forgot things but tried to remember. Who was still learning, still failing, still trying anyway.
“Then you earn her love,” I said. “Like you earned mine.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he closed his eyes.
“I’m going to be terrible at this.”
“Probably.”
“But I’m going to try.”
“This will take a lot of effort.”
I curled against him, his hand still on my belly, our daughter kicking between us.
Still learning, still trying.
That was everything.
THE END