Page 249 of Diego

I lean over them and put one hand against the back of Blair’s head and the other so gently against our son that I barely touch him.

“He’s here,” I say, although my voice does not sound like mine.

“He’s perfect.”

He is.

Ten fingers. Ten toes. A tiny mouth opening in another indignant cry before settling again. Dark hair that immediately makes me think of the men in my family. His face is scrunched from crying, his eyes closed, his fist pressed against Blair’s skin.

Our son.

I kiss Blair first.

Then I kiss the top of his head.

The doctor and nurses continue working around us, but they might as well be a hundred miles away. I hear numbers, measurements, reassurance that everything looks good, and none of it fully registers until one of the nurses asks whether we have chosen a name.

Blair looks at me.

I smile.

“We have.”

The nurse waits.

I look down at my son.

“Benjamin.”

Blair’s face softens at the name, even though we decided months ago. Her eyes fill again, and she looks down at him while running one finger carefully along his back.

Benjamin Owens was her father.

I never met him. I know him through Blair, through the stories about classic cars and Sunday drives, through her expressions when she talks about him, through the blue Corvette she still refuses to sell even though getting in and out of it became nearly impossible by the eighth month of pregnancy. Naming our son after him was never a compromise for me.

When I first suggested it, Blair stared at me as if I had lost my mind.

“You know Benjamin is not an Italian name,” she had said.

“I’m aware.”

“Your entire family is going to have opinions.”

“My entire family will have opinions regardless.”

She had laughed then, convinced I was teasing until I told her I meant it.

Our son would carry the Conti name. He would grow up surrounded by my family, my traditions, my history, and enough Italian relatives to make sure he never forgot where half of him came from. I wanted something of Blair’s father in his name too.

I insisted.

Now, holding the tiny hand that has somehow found my finger, I know I was right.

“Benjamin Conti,” Blair whispers.

I look at her. “It suits him.”

She laughs through her tears and nods. “Yeah, it does.” I kiss her forehead again. I can’t seem to get enough.