Chapter 27
Paola
Thirty-seven weeks.
Full term. Officially. “Any day now,” Dr. Lin had said at my last appointment. “Your body's ready. Lucia's ready. Now we just wait.”
I was so done waiting.
My back ached constantly. My feet were swollen beyond recognition. I couldn't sleep more than two hours at a stretch because Lucia's favorite activity was using my bladder as a trampoline.
I was ready to not be pregnant anymore.
"How are you feeling?" Cesare asked, finding me on the couch where I'd been camped for the past hour, unable to get comfortable.
"Like I'm carrying a bowling ball that kicks."
"That bad?"
"Worse. I can't see my feet. I can't tie my shoes. I waddle everywhere. And I'm pretty sure Lucia is planning to stay in there forever just to spite me."
He sat beside me, pulled my swollen feet into his lap, started massaging gently. "She'll come when she's ready."
"What if she's never ready? What if I'm pregnant forever?"
"You won't be pregnant forever."
"You don't know that."
Despite my misery, he smiled. "I love you. Even when you're irrational from pregnancy."
"I'm not irrational. I'm realistic. This baby is never coming out."
He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to my enormous belly. "Lucia. Your mama is very uncomfortable. Whenever you're ready to make your appearance, we're ready to meet you."
As if in response, a strong kick hit exactly where his lips had been.
"See? She's comfortable in there. She's never leaving."
"She will. Any day now."
I wanted to believe him. But thirty-seven weeks felt like an eternity, and the thought of waiting days or weeks more was unbearable.
That evening, after a dinner I could barely eat (no room with Lucia taking up all the space), Cesare and I settled in bed early. Both exhausted. Both waiting.
He wrapped around me carefully, one hand on my belly. "Try to sleep."
"I can't get comfortable."
"I know."
We lay in the darkness, his warmth against my back, Lucia shifting and kicking between us.
"I'm scared," I admitted. "About labor. About everything."
"Me too."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Nothing will go wrong. You're healthy. Lucia's healthy. Dr. Lin says everything's perfect."
"But what if—"
He kissed my shoulder. "We'll handle it. Whatever happens, we'll handle it together."
I laced my fingers through his where they rested on my belly. "Promise?"
"Promise."
Around 10 p.m., while we were still awake, still talking quietly about nothing and everything, I felt it.
A tightening. Low in my belly. Uncomfortable but not quite painful.
I waited. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe just Braxton Hicks again.
Seven minutes later, another one. Stronger.
"Cesare?"
"Yeah?"
"I think—I might be having contractions."
He sat up immediately. "Real ones?"
"I don't know. Maybe?"
We timed them. Seven minutes apart. Then another. Then another at six minutes.
"Should we call Dr. Lin?" Cesare asked, already reaching for his phone.
"Not yet. First labors take forever. We're supposed to wait until they're five minutes apart."
"Are you sure?"
"That's what all the books say."
We spent the next few hours timing contractions. Walking around the penthouse. Breathing through each one as they slowly, steadily intensified.
By midnight, they were five minutes apart.
By 1 a.m. I was leaning against the kitchen counter, breathing hard through a particularly strong one, when I felt it.
A gush of warm fluid running down my legs.
"Oh God."
"What? What's wrong?"
"My water just broke."
Cesare stared at the puddle on our kitchen floor. "Your water broke."
"That's what I just said."
"We need to go. We need to go to the hospital right now."
"I need to change first—"
"Now, Paola. We're going now."
He was already grabbing the hospital bag we'd packed weeks ago, helping me into clean clothes, guiding me toward the elevator.
Another contraction hit in the elevator. Stronger than before. I gripped Cesare's arm, breathing through it.
"You're doing great," he said. "Just breathe."
"I am breathing—"
"Keep breathing."
In the car, contractions were four minutes apart. Intense enough that I couldn't talk through them.
"We're almost there," Cesare kept saying, driving faster than he should. "Almost there, baby."
I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or Lucia.
The hospital at 2 a.m. was quiet. Eerily so.
They got me checked in quickly—pre-registered weeks ago, everything ready.
A nurse guided us to a delivery room while I had two more contractions in the hallway.
"Let's check your progress," she said once I was in a gown, monitors attached to my belly.
Lucia's heartbeat filled the room—steady, strong, perfect.
"You're at four centimeters," the nurse announced after checking. "Active labor. You're staying."
Four centimeters. Six more to go before I could push.
The contractions intensified through the early morning. Every few minutes, the pain building, peaking, slowly releasing.
Cesare never left my side. Breathing with me. Holding my hand. Whispering encouragement.
"You're so strong. You're doing amazing. Just breathe through it."
By 6 a.m. I was exhausted and only at six centimeters.
"I want the epidural," I told the nurse. "Now. Please."
"I'll page anesthesia."
The epidural was a miracle. Within twenty minutes of placement, the pain dulled to pressure. I could breathe again. Think again.
"Better?" Cesare asked.
"So much better. Why didn't I do this hours ago?"
"Because you're stubborn."
"I prefer 'determined.'"
"That too."
He texted Piero: She's in labor. Could be hours still. I'll update you.
The response came immediately: We're coming. Waiting room.
"They're here," Cesare said within a half hour. "Piero, your father, Anna. All in the waiting room."
"Tell them it might be a while."
"I did. They don't care."
The morning stretched into afternoon. Dr. Lin checked every hour.
Eight centimeters at 10 a.m.
Nine centimeters at noon.
"Almost there," Dr. Lin said. "Another hour or so and you'll be ready to push."
An hour felt like forever.
By 2 p.m. I was fully dilated.
"Time to have a baby," Dr. Lin announced, getting into position. "Paola, when the next contraction comes, I want you to push. Chin to chest, hold for ten seconds."
The contraction built. I pushed.
Nothing happened.
"Good! I can see a little bit of her head. Keep going."
I pushed through the next contraction. And the next. And the next.
Forty-five minutes of pushing. Exhaustion creeping back despite the epidural.
"I can't," I gasped. "I can't do this anymore."
"Yes, you can," Cesare said firmly. "You're so close. I can see her, Paola. I can see our daughter."
"I'm too tired—"
"One more push. Just one more."
"You've been saying that for twenty minutes."
"This time I mean it. Her head is right there. One big push and her head will be out."
Dr. Lin confirmed, "He's right. One more big one, Paola. Give me everything you've got."
The next contraction built. I gathered every ounce of strength left.
And pushed.
The pressure was incredible. The burning—the "ring of fire" everyone talks about—was real and overwhelming.
"Yes! The head is out!" Dr. Lin's voice filled with excitement. "Don't push! Pant! I need to check for the cord."
I panted, trying desperately not to push whilst my body screamed at me to keep going.
"Cord is clear," Dr. Lin said quickly. "One more push for the shoulders and she's here. One more, Paola."
Cesare leaned close. "One more. One more and we meet her. You can do this."
The final contraction built.
I pushed with everything left in me.
"That's it! Shoulders are out—here she comes!"
And then—
A cry.
Loud. Indignant. The most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.
"It's a girl!" Dr. Lin announced unnecessarily, lifting this tiny, screaming person.
Our daughter.
My breath stopped. Time stopped.
Dr. Lin placed her immediately on my chest. Skin to skin.
She was tiny, covered in vernix. Screaming her fury at being born.
Perfect.
"Hi, Lucia," I sobbed. "Hi, baby. I'm your mama."
Her crying quieted slightly, like she recognized my voice.
Cesare's hand touched her tiny head, trembling. "She's here. She's really here."
"She's perfect," I whispered.
Dr. Lin worked efficiently—clamping the cord. "Dad, want to cut it?"
Cesare cut the cord with shaking hands, officially separating Lucia from me for the first time.
She screamed again, not happy about it.
"Strong lungs," the nurse said, smiling. "That's good. Let's get her stats."
They took her briefly—weighed, measured, checked.
"Seven pounds, two ounces. Nineteen inches long. Apgar scores nine and nine."
Perfect. Healthy. Ours.
They brought her back, placed her on my chest again.
She settled immediately, her tiny fist curling around my finger.
"Hi, Lucia Isabella Monti," Cesare said, voice thick with tears. "We're your parents. We love you so much."
I'd never seen him cry like this. Openly. Unashamedly.
"She's perfect," he kept saying. "You're both perfect."
The first nursing attempt was fumbling and awkward, but Lucia latched eventually. The feeling was strange and wonderful and overwhelming.
"You're a natural," the nurse said.
I didn't feel natural. I felt terrified and amazed and so full of love I couldn't breathe.
After an hour of bonding, Dr. Lin said gently, "The family's been waiting. Would you like them to meet her?"
I looked at Cesare. He nodded.
"Two at a time," the nurse said.
"Piero first," I said. "He's been waiting to be Uncle Piero for nine months."
Cesare went to get him.
Piero entered slowly, reverently, his eyes already wet.
He stopped when he saw Lucia in my arms.
"She's here," he whispered. "She's really here."
"Come meet your niece," I invited.
He approached, looked down at Lucia, and started crying in earnest.
"Hi, Lucia. I'm your Uncle Piero." He touched her tiny hand with one finger. "You're so beautiful."
Lucia grasped his finger, that instinctive newborn grip.
"She's strong," he marveled.
"Like her mother," Cesare said.
After a few minutes, Piero reluctantly stepped back. "Giovanni's next?"
I nodded.
My father entered, already crying before he even saw her.
"Papa," I said softly. "Would you like to hold her?"
"May I?"
I showed him how to support her head. He took Lucia with trembling hands, looked down at his granddaughter, and completely fell apart.
"Hello, little one. I'm your Nonno. Your grandfather." His tears fell onto her blanket. "And I'm going to love you so much."
Lucia made a small sound. Giovanni cried harder.
"Thank you," he said to me, voice breaking. "Thank you for letting me be here. For this gift."
"You're family, Papa."
After Giovanni, Anna came in with flowers and tears.
"Oh my God, Paola. She's perfect."
"Want to hold her?"
Anna took Lucia carefully, looking down with pure wonder. "Hi, Lucia. I'm your Auntie Anna. You're so loved. So incredibly loved."
After visiting hours ended, it was just us. The three of us.
A nurse showed us how to change a diaper. We fumbled through it, Lucia screaming her displeasure.
"This is harder than it looks," Cesare muttered.
"We'll get better."
Eventually, we got Lucia clean, changed, re-swaddled. Night fell. The hospital settled into quiet. Lucia slept in the bassinet beside my bed. We couldn't stop staring at her.
"I can't believe she's real," I whispered.
"Neither can I."
"We made her."
"We did."
Around 11 p.m., Lucia woke hungry. I nursed her while Cesare watched, both of us learning together.
"You're doing great," he said.
"I have no idea what I'm doing."
"Neither do I. But we're figuring it out."
After feeding, another diaper change—easier this time. We settled back into bed. Lucia between us in the bassinet, sleeping peacefully.
"Welcome to parenthood," I said.
"It's terrifying."
"And perfect."
"Both."
We fell asleep holding hands across the bassinet, our daughter breathing softly between us.
A family.
Complete.
Everything.