"Never," I promise. "Never, little wolf."
At 4:47 AM, our daughter enters the world screaming. Dark hair, furious at the indignity of birth, perfect.
"Sofia," Mariana breathes.
Sofia. We'd finally agreed on names last week—Sofia for a girl, Adrian for a boy.
But there's no time to celebrate. The second twin is coming.
"I can't," Mariana sobs. "I can't do it again."
"You can. One more, my love. Bring our son out and it's over."
And at 5:03 AM, our son arrives. Quieter than his sister, but alert, an expression that makes him look already too knowing.
"Adrian," I whisper.
The nurses place both babies on Mariana's chest, and I see my entire world in that hospital bed—my wife, exhausted but radiant, holding our children who are still connected to her, to us, by invisible threads that will never truly be cut.
"They're perfect," Mariana says, touching each tiny face.
"Like their mother."
She laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Everything hurts."
I kiss her forehead, tasting salt and struggle and triumph. "You did it."
"We did it."
The next hours blur together. Tests, measurements, first attempts at feeding. Sofia latches immediately, aggressive even in eating. Adrian is more thoughtful, taking his time, studying the process before committing.
"Already showing their personalities," the nurse observes.
By afternoon, our room has become command central. Mila arrives first, arms full of balloons and tears streaming down her face.
"They're beautiful! Look at those cheeks! Can I hold them?"
"Wash your hands," I order.
"I already did. Twice. With surgical soap."
Alexei follows with the twins—Viktor and Katya who are now toddlers that peer at the babies with suspicion.
"Babies small," Viktor announces.
"You were that small once," Alexei tells him.
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
Boris arrives with what appears to be half of Moscow's flower supply. Rodriguez brings FBI onesies that say "Future Agent" which makes me growl and Mariana laugh.
But it's her mother who makes me understand everything.
She arrives that evening, taking Sofia from my arms with the expertise of a woman who knows babies. As she rocks my daughter, singing softly in Spanish, she looks at me.
