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We were at the hospital. Julianna slept while I whispered the news to my cousin and waited while she relayed it to my tearful grandparents.
I flipped my screen to show them my precious girl sleeping in the plastic bassinette. So tiny. So fragile.
My grandmother’s voice, trembling with longing, reached my ears.
My cousin laughed and translated. “She wants to name your baby.”
Something in my chest expanded. I flipped the screen around. “What would she name her?”
They conferred while I listened in, only understanding it had something to do with my mother.
My cousin’s eyes, when she turned back to me, shone. “Greek tradition dictates that she be named after your mother. Your mother’s name means new life. Resurrection.” She swallowed hard. “She says having you has given her and Pappou new life. She says you have resurrected their joy. She says you are their greatest blessing.”
I struggled to clear my throat.
She called me a blessing.
“Uh, I have to go. Tell her,” I rasped, then paused to catch my breath. “Tell my Yiayia, I will name her Anastasia.”
I ended the call before my cousin finished speaking, unable to bear the weight of their happiness. Joy that held the echoes of their grief.
This memory streamed through my mind as I watched Hope confer with Giovanni, tracked her first faltering steps toward me, as well as the last that indicated a change in direction.
A change of mind.
Quickly, I stood and held out the chair beside me.
Where I increasingly craved her presence.
Blessing.
Could I be a blessing?
Satisfaction filled the hollow cavity of my chest as Hope teetered on her heel before turning toward me.
I drew in a deep breath.
Not Doing This With You
Hope
I sat down gingerly in the chair he pulled out for me, unsure of the purpose of the invitation.
“Hi, Ares.” Oh, eloquent. I tried again. “You come here often?” Did I really just say that?
His mouth barely quirked, but his eyes most definitely smiled. “More often than I used to,” he murmured in response as he tucked my chair in behind me.
Angling his chair and dragging it closer to mine, he sat down, took a sip of his hot chocolate, and said, “Hi.”
“You have hot chocolate,” I stated with surprise. “I had you pegged for a black coffee kind of guy.”
“Why’s that?”
I waved my hand to the side to indicate his clothing as well as his demeanour. “Seemed like a good bet?”
His narrowed eyes assessed me. “I’m definitely not a basic black coffee kind of guy. Where’s the fun in that?”
He sounded like Giovanni. “Have you been talking to Giovanni?”
