74. Amelka Katarzyna
Amelka Katarzyna
Ipretend to sleep while Dominik’s snoring becomes a metronome of guilt. Guilt for what I can’t seem to do: move on with him. It keeps me awake, staring at the wall.
Then my phone goes off. The vibration cuts through the quiet like a pulse. Dominik startles, half upright, reaching out to touch my arm, just a brief brush of connection, like a man taking inventory of everything that still matters before facing something new.
“Who is it?” he asks, groggy.
I look at the screen. “It’s Piotr.”
Dominik nods, already alert in the way he gets when family needs something.
I answer, and everything spills through the speaker: the chaos, the love, the noise.
Aga’s voice cuts through the background, impatient.
“She’s having contractions,” Piotr says, breathless. “We’re going to the hospital. Can you come watch Kacper?”
“Of course,” I say immediately, already pushing the covers back.
“I’m coming too,” Dominik says, halfway into his shirt before I can protest.
“You don’t have to,” I start, even though a part of me is grateful.
He shakes his head. “I’m not letting you go alone. They’re family. I’m helping.”
So we move quickly, careful not to wake Zosia until he lifts her from her bed, still dreaming.
“Come on, kochana,” he murmurs, wrapping her blanket tight around her. “We’ve got to help Uncle Piotr and Auntie Aga.”
She stirs, confused, her head resting against his shoulder. “Tatu??”
“The baby is coming,” he says softly, smoothing her hair.
When we arrive, the house is a blur of motion. Aga pacing, Piotr hunting for her hospital bag, shouting to no one in particular. Dominik carries Zosia upstairs, easing her back into bed while I steady Aga through another contraction.
“Breathe,” I say, my clinical voice slipping through before I can stop it. “You’re okay. They’ll keep you comfortable. Lean on me.”
I help her toward the car while Dominik corrals Piotr, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Relax,” he tells him, half laughing. “Time to be a father again. You’ve got this. It’s a beautiful day, brother.”
Piotr nods, frazzled, clutching the keys like they’re oxygen. “Thank you. Thank you both. Keep my siostra out of trouble.”
We watch them speed off into the rain, taillights bleeding red against the dark.
When the door shuts behind us, the house exhales, that fragile, delicate quiet that follows chaos. Then, from upstairs, a soft cry breaks through.
“I’ll get him,” Dominik says immediately, already climbing the stairs.
I start the kettle, reach for bottles without thinking. When he comes back down, Kacper’s bundled against his chest, face scrunched and indignant at the world.
“See?” I say, passing him the bottle with a faint smile. “I remembered what you did last time.”
He grins, eyes warm. “Not magic after all.” I say.
“Don’t start bragging until he actually takes it,” he teases.
Kacper latches, hushing between us. I watch Dominik, the curve of Kacper’s cheek against his chest, the calm orbit that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Something in me loosens. Maybe this is what healing looks like, not forgetting. Just making space for new moments to exist between the ache.
Dominik’s at the stove, hair a mess, turning breakfast into what looks dangerously close to chaos.
I’m cutting bread for toast and pretending not to hover.
Coffee and fried batter waft through the house.
Zosia hums at the table, her small fork clinking against her plate.
Kacper gurgles in his bouncer, perfectly content in his own little universe.
The phone rings. Piotr. I swipe to answer, tucking it between my shoulder and ear.
“She’s here!” he says, breathless. “Born at 11:43 a.m. A perfect girl.”
I grin, instantly awake. “What name did you finally settle on?”
“Amelka Katarzyna Sawadzka,” he says, then adds, “after my pain-in-the-ass sister who never stops being tough. Always puts others above her. Who knows, maybe she’ll get that brain of yours, too.”
The words hit harder than I expect. My throat tightens. I turn slightly away from the stove, blinking fast. Dominik glances over, reads the expression on my face, and without a word reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. Just once. Firm, steady.
I clear my throat. “Shut up, Piotrek. Get home fast before Dominik burns the house down trying to make whatever this is.”
“Nale?niki!” Dominik calls, mock-offended.
Piotr laughs. “We’ll be out in two or three days, tops. Everything’s perfect. Just keep Mama and Tata from turning it into a celebration too fast, okay? We want some recovery time.”
“Deal,” I say. “Kiss Aga for me.”
I hang up. The kitchen feels brighter somehow, full of sugar and butter and the smell of something real and good. Dominik plates the food, thin pancakes rolled with jam, powdered sugar dusting the air. Zosia’s already eating, cheeks sticky, humming.
“It’s delicious,” I tell him, and it is.
But what I want, what I ache to do is tell Rafe.
About my niece, her middle name. Instead, I take another bite, swallow the instinct, and try to match the calm in Dominik’s eyes when he looks at me.
Across the table, Kacper squeals in his bouncer, legs kicking.
Zosia leans down to tickle him, then recoils.
“Ew, he drooled on me!”
She wipes her hand dramatically on Dominik’s arm. He stares at the wet patch, deadpan.
“Oh, thank you, córeczka (daughter), for such a gift.”
Zosia shrieks as he scoops her up, tickling until she’s gasping with laughter. I laugh too, I can’t help it. The sound bursts out of me, lighter than I’ve felt in months. For today, it’s just this: coffee, laughter, and the warmth of a world that finally feels safe again.
The first weeks after Amelka’s birth pass in a kind of warm blur.
The first few days are all hospital visits, cooing, and quiet awe at her beauty.
Pictures galore. Natalia is in her element.
Once they’re released, everyone takes their turn going over to help or at least to hold her and pretend they’re helping.
I go first, then Dominik and Zosia. We bring soup and diapers and end up staying half the day, because Aga keeps falling asleep mid-sentence and Piotr can’t figure out the sterilizer.
Then Natalia takes her turn and swears she’s never having children as we pass shifts.
“He’s a machine,” she says of Kacper, dramatically. “A machine that produces only disgusting things, poop, pee, drool, and tears.”
I laugh until I cry.
Then Mama and Tata take their turn, bringing half the kitchen with them, soups, cutlets, enough bread to feed a small village. Piotr texts the family group chat, We don’t need another loaf, Mama, we need sleep, but she doesn’t listen.
The plan for the weekend starts almost immediately.
“To wet the baby’s head,” Tata says while we prepare family dinner, eyes bright. “A proper celebration!”
They’ll drink good Polish vodka and raise their glasses. Na zdrowie! To good health, long life, and a beautiful future. To my tiny namesake. To the stubborn, ridiculous, unshakable Sawadzka clan.
Mama insists everyone bring one bottle and two dishes, which she claims will be “more than enough to feed an army,” then adds three more recipes to her list anyway. “No one will go hungry,” she declares. “Not under my roof.”
I’m slicing cucumbers for salad when Dominik follows me in, leaning against the counter, watching everyone move around in a tangle of energy.
“It’s nice,” he says. “Feels peaceful again. After… everything.”
His voice trails off. He doesn’t say it, but I know what everything means. The stalker. The blood. The hospital. Rafe. The wordless wreckage between then and now.
He notices the way my shoulders tense and reaches out, fingers brushing my arm.
His touch is comforting, solid, the kind of contact that doesn’t demand anything from me.
When I look up, his eyes are soft with worry, with the kind of love that’s known me since we were kids, before the music hooked me, before the heartbreak, before all of it.
Somehow, the weight I’ve been carrying changes shape. Not gone, not even close but lighter by a fraction. In the next room, Mama laughs at something Piotr says, and Zosia bursts into a song she only vaguely remembers. Life keeps moving, and I stand there in the middle of it, grateful, still here.
By Saturday, the house feels like a song.
Aga, pale but radiant, holding Amelka like she’s still afraid to set her down.
Piotr, beaming in that stunned new-father way.
Natalia pretends she’s only come for the food, then sneaks kisses from the baby when she thinks no one’s looking.
Mama moves through the kitchen like a general, commanding the pierogi operation.
Tata pouring shots before noon. Dominik is definitely partaking.
Zosia squeals as she runs through the house.
Neighbors stop by, even Father Marek. It’s all lightness and energy. Perfect for baby Amelka.
By the time evening falls, the table’s covered in plates and laughter and things that sparkle.
We drink to anything we can think of, Na zdrowie!
To Amelka.
To health.
To love that survives what tries to break it.
To stubborn Sawadzka blood.
Vodka warms everything. I lose count after the third toast, though I’m fairly sure Mama’s been replacing hers with water for a while.
I slip outside when no one’s watching, glass still in hand.
The air is cool, soft against my flushed cheeks.
The stars are clear tonight, the kind of sky that makes you believe in patterns, in fate, in people meant to find each other even after everything.
I sit on the porch steps, phone in hand.
For a long moment, I just stare at it. Rafe.
Then, because the vodka has made me brave or stupid or both, I start typing.
Hey. We’re celebrating my niece tonight.
Her name’s Amelka Katarzyna Sawadzka. Piotr gave her my name.
It made me cry. Everyone’s singing, Mama’s threatening to feed the neighbors if we don’t finish the pierogi.
It’s loud and happy and I keep thinking how much you’d like it, if you were here.
I hope wherever you are, the sky’s as beautiful as this one.
That we're under the same one again, for a little while. You deserve that kind of night.
I stare at the words for a long time, thumb hovering. Then I hit send.
The message ticks away into the dark, tiny, irreversible. I tilt my head back, breathe in the cool air, and for a second I swear I can hear him: that melodic laugh, the one that always sounded like the first chord before a song began.
Inside, someone starts another toast. I wipe my eyes, laugh under my breath, and go back in. Mama shoves a plate into my hands. Zosia’s dancing in circles with a half-eaten cookie. And for tonight, at least, the ache and the joy can share the same space.
Sunlight finds me before I’m ready for it.
It slips past the curtains and straight across my face, and for a second I just lie there, trying to remember why my head hurts and why my cheeks feel tight from smiling.
Then I hear the kettle downstairs, the low murmur of Mama’s radio, and it all comes back, the laughter, the songs, the toasts that went on too long.
My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, heavy with that sense of waiting.
I don’t need to check to know I texted him.
I remember the cool air, the stars, the tremor in my thumb when I pressed send.
Still, I reach for it. There it is—1 new message.
His name. I sit up, the blanket slipping around my waist, and open it. A voice message.
“Amelka Katarzyna. That’s beautiful. Katarzyna means pure, doesn’t it? I remember you mumbling something about it under the covers once, when you said you weren’t living up to that purity.”
His laugh is light, melodic. It makes my pulse skip.
“Seems fitting. Everything about you matches the concept, true, pure, in everything you do.”
He sighs, pauses, collects his thoughts.
“Tell your brother congratulations.”
Silence for a moment, then—
“Thank you for sharing her with me. Names have gravity. You’ve just given another one to the world that carries yours, a light in the dark.”
Then, a deeper sigh, the kind that asks whether he should say the next part, the part I left unspoken. But he does.
“I miss you, Kasia. We're still under the same sky, but it feels smaller without you to share it.”
There it is again, the thing I told myself I’d stopped waiting for.
His poetry. The way he can turn a name into prose.
My throat tightens. My heart feels both too full and completely hollow.
I want to answer. To tell him how Amelka’s tiny fingers already curl around your heart, how Piotr cried more than Aga, how I still can’t look at the sky without thinking of him.
But I don’t. I just whisper it aloud instead.
“I miss you too.”