Page 72 of Thin Lives

She suspected it would get a hell of a lot worse.

Emma wasn’t ready for it, and she wished more than anything that it was Calisto standing in her doorway wearing a tired, confused expression instead of the man who was.

“What?” Affonso asked, angry and gruff.

“The baby is coming,” Emma told him.

Affonso’s brow furrowed. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I need to go to the hospital.”

“Call the ambulance.”

He turned around and walked back into the bedroom across the hall.

Emma sat still and stunned in her own bed for the longest while—until another contraction ripped through her womb, stabbing her all over with pain. It was only then that she reached for the phone on the bedside table, knowing that Affonso had no interest in her child, or his birth.

At least not until he was outside of her body and breathing.

Emma couldn’t stop staring at her child. He was beautiful with his tiny, sloped nose, rounded pink cheeks, and his small features.

Oh, Cross was perfect.

All those hours, those terrifying, painful hours, had been worth it for this one, quiet moment of her life. People often said that once the baby was in the woman’s arms, she forgot about the pain that had come with the birth because the child took it away.

Emma hadn’t believed that, not entirely.

And in a way, she still didn’t.

She would never forget the pain—not the blood, the contractions, or the fear. But once she had her healthy, beautiful—albeit tiny, given he’d come early—boy in her arms, the memory of the pain had lessened instantly. She focused in on Cross, his bloodstained cheeks and matted black hair. She had traced her shaking finger down the slope of his nose and under his blinking, hazy black eyes as a nurse put him on her chest and began to warm him with a towel.

Not once did she think about the pain.

“So beautiful,” she told her little boy.

Cross’s black eyes watched her contentedly, though she was sure things were a little fuzzy to him. Still, as long as he was swaddled and being held, he was happy. Emma didn’t mind making him happy. He was her little prince, after all.

“I waited so long for you, Cross.”

The baby blinked, unknowing.

He couldn’t possibly know how terrified she had been for most of his pregnancy, or how much she had needed to do just to keep him safe while praying he stayed right where he was inside her womb for long enough to survive being outside of it.

Worth it, Emma reminded herself.

Once more, Emma went about counting each one of the baby’s little fingers and toes. She traced the lines on his palms, and studied the fingerprints on each of his little fingers.

Innocence and pure love rested in her arms.

Emma had never felt more complete.

She had also never felt lonelier.

Staring at Cross only reminded her of the person he was missing the most, even if he didn’t know it—his father. He shared far more of Calisto’s features than he did hers. From his dark hair, or his black eyes, the curve of his plump pink lips, and the shape of his nose—it was all Calisto Donati right there in flesh and blood.

Cross was his father’s son, no doubt about it.

“Handsome boy,” Emma told him.