The cry is the first thing I register. It is reedy and impossibly loud for something so small. Then the weight of her on my chest, slippery and warm, and I forget how to breathe.
“Oh,” I whisper. It’s the only word I can manage.
Antonio leans over us, one hand cupping our daughter’s head. His eyes are wet. I’ve never seen him cry before.
“She’s perfect,” he says.
I look down at her scrunched face, her tiny fists, the dark hair plastered to her scalp. She looks like him. The shape of her nose, the set of her brow. Already so much her father’s daughter.
“Hi baby girl,” I say.
She stops crying. Her eyes are open now, unfocused and dark, staring up at nothing and everything.
I wonder what she sees. If she recognizes my voice from all those months of reading to her. If she knows she’s safe.
We’d argued about names for months. He wanted something Portuguese and I wanted something that wouldn’t get her bullied in a classroom.
Then one night in bed, he’d laughed and said, “We should name her Elvis. Since Vegas started all of this.”
I’d rolled my eyes. “We’re not naming our daughter Elvis.”
“What about Presley?”
I’d gone quiet. Presley. It was unusual, but not strange. Strong. A bit country, a little rock and roll. And every time we said it, we’d remember that night in Vegas.
“Presley Carmen,” I’d said slowly. “After the King and after your mother.”
His eyes had gone soft. “You’d name her after Mãe?”
“She’s the reason you’re the man you are.” I’d traced his jaw with my fingertip. “Seems right that our daughter should carry a piece of her.”
“Presley Carmen Da Rocha,” he’d kissed me then. “It’s perfect, querida.”
Now I look at our daughter and the name fits her.
“Hi, Presley.” I touch her cheek. “I’m your mom. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m going to figure it out. I promise.”
Antonio’s hand covers mine where it rests on her back.
“We’re going to figure it out,” he says. “Together.”
Three hours later, I’m cleaned up, stitched up, and propped against a mountain of pillows with my daughter asleep on my chest.
The exhaustion is bone-deep. I should be sleeping too. But I can’t stop looking at her. Can’t stop cataloging the way her lips purse in her sleep, the flutter of her eyelashes, and the small sounds she makes that aren’t quite snores.
Antonio is sprawled in the chair beside my bed, passed out cold. Apparently, emotional labor is just as exhausting as actual labor. I’ll give him grief about it later.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens and suddenly my room is full of people.
Meesha is vibrating with excitement, and Jessa is right behind her, holding a pink balloon that says IT’S A GIRL in glittery letters. Behind them come Jaxon, Connor, Kamal, and finally Carmen.
She pushes past everyone else, her eyes locked on the bundle in my arms.
“Minha neta.” Her voice trembles. “My granddaughter.”
