Total pages in book: 178
Estimated words: 170884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 170884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 854(@200wpm)___ 684(@250wpm)___ 570(@300wpm)
The house was quiet. That was a rare event in itself. Sure, it was early, but silence was not as calming as it had once been. Especially not when I had to endure the time without my son as I had. Silence was daunting, and as I crept into his bedroom and found him fast asleep, my heart uncoiled and I allowed myself to breathe again.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, I looked down into the angelic face of the boy who almost never came home. My hand moved without prompting, and as I touched his hair, I reminded myself that we were good.
We were good.
Being as quiet as I could, I let him sleep a while longer because he wasn’t broken in his dreams.
Barefoot and pregnant, I made my way to the fridge and poured myself a glass of orange juice, then went in search of the man missing in action. It wasn’t often we woke separately, but when we did, I became restless.
It didn’t take long, and when I pushed open the sliding door and stood in the open doorway dressed in only my nightie, he peered up at me a moment before continuing what he was doing. And with every second that passed, the mirth crept up my throat, dangerously wishing to escape. But I kept it on lock.
Instead, I leaned against the doorframe, and uttered, “Once upon a time, I thought you were a god.” I sipped my juice. “And now look at you, doing laundry, hanging up my panties and bras.”
I held the laughter down as much as I could, but when his eyes crinkled in laughter, he pointed at me in warning, and five of my bras hung from his forearm. I lost the battle, tipping my head back and let my light laughter free.
He shook his head, but I didn’t miss the way his lip twitched. When he muttered, “Fuck you, baby,” it sounded more like, “I love you, baby,” and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.
With my heart full and my baby kicking, I made to leave, and as I did, he called out, “You could help, you know.”
I paused in the doorway, gazing over at him, and my brows rose.
This guy.
“I’ve done laundry for six long years, honey.” I started to close the sliding door between us, and as I did, I sassily stated, “It’s officially your turn.”
He mock-glared at me through the glass.
I blew him a kiss.
He went on clipping my panties and bras on the clothes line. And I’d never been more content in my life.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months. Months turned to years.
The old oak in the backyard, the same oak I had carved the name of the boy I swore I wouldn’t forget at the age of seven, now bore the names of each additional family member we welcomed into our brood.
It had become tradition.
Later that year, another name would be carved into the Falco oak.
And my heart and soul settled as my family grew.
The soft cries coming from the nursery had me shooting up in bed, momentarily confused and fretful enough to make me sweat. But he was already up and out the door. And when he returned with the little bundle, I switched on the lamp as he set her down gently between us.
Her nostrils flared and her mouth pulled down, her lips trembling as her little arms attempted to break free of her muslin restraint. No. She wasn’t happy, our little dame. And we both knew why.
Blinking sleepily, I reached up to unhook the front of my bra and lowered the cup before gently lifting my sweet little girl and holding her to my breast. She latched on quickly, my little piggy, and did her thing as her father leaned on his side, propping himself up drowsily on his elbow, watching us both lovingly as she ate her fill.
My husband stroked the wispy hairs at the back of her head, and whispered sleepily, “Slow down, Fia. Momma’s not goin’ anywhere.”
My heart could barely take how much love I had inside me. It was strong, overflowing, and as it settled over me like a warm blanket, I wondered if it would ever get old.
Chances were, it wouldn’t. And I was okay with that. In fact, I was counting on it.
Twitch was somewhat of a voyeur these days, especially when it came to his children. He loved to watch A.J. do his homework, priding our eldest on his smarts. He adored watching Matteo fall on his little tush, trying in vain to stop his little legs from falling out from underneath him as he attempted to run before he could even walk. But, most of all, he treasured every moment of Sofia’s feeding.
His little princess, he called her. Daddy’s girl.
I had a premonition she would be the apple of her father’s eye.