But I no longer felt obligated to make Diego comfortable at the expense of my own peace.
At thirty-six weeks, the babies were born.
A boy.
And a girl.
Nicolás and Emilia.
They were tiny, wrinkled, and furious at the world.
And they were alive.
When the medical team placed them against my chest, everything else seemed to disappear.
The accusations.
The vasectomy.
Paola.
The divorce papers.
The gossip.
The humiliation.
For a few precious moments, there was nothing except the warmth of my children.
My two exhausted miracles.
I held them close.
I kissed them.
I whispered their names.
Diego waited outside.
I allowed him to enter only after I had spent those first moments with them.
He walked into the room slowly, almost reverently.
When he saw the babies, he covered his mouth.
“Laura—”
“Do not speak loudly.”
He nodded.
He approached their crib.
Nicolás opened his eyes slightly.
