Page 104 of The Voicemail

Elena grips the edge of the desk. “Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

Another contraction hits, and the joke leaves her face.

I’m at her side before I think about moving. “Tell me what hurts.”

“My dignity, mostly.”

“Elena.”

“My back. My stomach. Everything in a very organized pattern that suggests your daughter is impatient.”

“Oh, she’s my daughter now?”

“She has your timing.”

“She has your flair for dramatic entrances.”

Marco appears again. “The car’s ready.”

I guide Elena carefully. She argues for exactly three seconds before another contraction steals her breath, then fists my shirt and mutters something about men, biology, and terrible design.

Labor takes fourteen hours. I stay beside her for every minute. I hold her hand when she crushes mine. I wipe her face with a cool cloth. I count when the doctor tells me to count, and I stop counting when Elena tells me if I say another number she’ll make me regret surviving Bianchi.

Near the end, she starts to shake. Fear slips through the exhaustion, and I bring her hand to my mouth.

“Look at me. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and they slide down her face, mixing with sweat.

“That was the right thing to say,” she whispers.

Then our daughter comes into the world, furious and screaming. The doctor places her on Elena’s chest, and every violent, calculating part of my life goes silent.

Our daughter is impossibly small with dark hair, wrinkled hands, and a mouth wide open in protest. Elena touches her cheek with one shaking finger.

“Hi,” she whispers. “Hi, sweetheart.”

I sit on the edge of the bed and put my arm around Elena. My other hand hovers over the baby because I have no idea how to touch something this perfect.

Elena looks at me through tears. “She’s okay?”

“She’s perfect.”

The baby scrunches her face harder.

Elena laughs softly. I lean down and kiss Elena’s temple, then our daughter’s damp hair.

“We never decided on a name,” she reminds me. We’ve argued over names for months. Italian names. Family names. Names Luca suggested just to irritate me. Names Maya rejected because she said no niece of hers would sound like a tragic duchess.

I look at our daughter.

Then at the woman who changed my life by calling the wrong number.

“Her name is whatever you want it to be.”

Elena’s smile turns soft. She looks down at the baby and brushes her thumb along one tiny cheek.