Chapter 18

Chapter

Eighteen

I am in the ultrasound room of my doctor's office, and You are in a chair to my left, hands both around one of mine. With my other I keep my shirt tucked up into my bra, so it doesn't get smeared with the ultrasound jelly.

The ultrasound technician, a woman named Lisa, has one hand on the wand, swiveling and sliding it all around my belly, angling it this way and that, tapping at the keyboard, sliding a ball that I think acts as a kind of computer mouse. Taking measurements, Lisa says—we'll get to the good stuff in a minute.

I peer at the TV screen opposite the bed/table I'm on, trying to decipher what I'm seeing. But it's all a mystery, nothing but blobs and shadows and black and white, and sometimes ribbons of pulsating, shifting color.

You glance at me, brows drawn down in a pinched expression of concentration. Maybe you see something I don't?

And then Lisa taps a key and the room is filled with a rushing, rhythmic sound. A heartbeat. But there's an echo to it, or an overlap— thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP-thumpthump-THUMPTHUMP , a sound too fast to even be a fetal heartbeat.

"Is that echoing sound normal?" I ask.

"Let me just..." Lisa doesn't finish the sentence, though, but rather shifts the wand around, does something to narrow and zoom the focus, and captures the heartbeat again.

Swivels, shifts, angles, utterly focused. But frowning, brow furrowed.

"Is there something wrong?" I ask.

"Not wrong, no. But I just want to verify what I think I'm seeing with another tech, okay? Just sit tight." And then Lisa leaves, comes back a moment later with another woman whom she introduces as Megan, an ultrasonographer.

Megan introduces me to the less-than-wonderful experience of a vaginal ultrasound, doing much the same as Lisa did, only inside me. What fun.

And I'm worried, because Lisa isn't telling me anything, and neither is Megan, and I'm starting to panic.

"Can you please tell me what's going on?" I ask, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

You squeeze my hand, smile at me— it's okay , You're telling me, without needing words.

"Okay," Megan says, zooming the perspective in, bringing up the strange, overlapping heartbeat, then holding the wand steady at a specific angle, so that within the black oval of my uterus there are two small white blobs visible. Megan points at the screen with an index finger. "So what we have here, Mom and Dad, is two babies."

"What?" I sound as breathless as I truly am.

"You're having twins."

"Are you sure?" I ask.

Megan laughs, not unkindly. "Yes, I'm sure. There's no way to mistake it, not from this angle." An index finger, stabbing the screen. "One, two. And yes, there are only two."

Twins.

Not just one unexpected child, but two .

We go home, and I think we are both in a daze. Once through the front door, I slump, stunned, to the couch.

It is overwhelming. How does one prepare for motherhood? I don't remember my mother, aside from a few minor glimpses. I haven't remembered anything else, and I don't think I will. Nothing major, at least. I don't remember my mother. I don't remember my father. I don't remember my childhood aside from a couple of insignificant memories. With no examples, how will I know whether I'm doing it right or wrong?

I am not worried about loving them; I already do, fiercely, wildly. I think of them, whisper their names, and I feel this virulent, surging wash of throat-constricting emotion, a willingness to do whatever it takes. I have read so many books on parenting, read a thousand blogs on the subject, browsed through countless online chat forums. I go to the park and watch mothers with their children. Try to picture myself, a baby on each hip. Try to imagine waking up at midnight or three in the morning to feed them. Try to imagine buckling a little life into a car seat.

The visions are easy.

But I imagine the reality is always different. No one can ever be ready for parenthood, I think. You can't ever truly comprehend the truth of an entire life being solely dependent on you for survival, for guidance, for love.

Thinking about the lives inside me, more than anything, makes me miss my parents. Or, rather, the idea of knowing them. It is difficult to put into words, even for myself. I cannot miss them, because I remember very little of them. I miss... the idea of them. I wish I remembered them. I wish I had them around to ask for guidance and advice. I wish...

So many things.

Too many things.

"Isabel?" You, on the floor in front of me, looking up at me. Searching me with Your one vivid blue eye.

"Twins, Logan." I speak the truth out loud, and I am no less afraid for saying it.

"Twins, Isabel." You seem calm. Too calm.

I look down at You. "You seem unaffected, Logan."

A shrug. "It's two babies rather than one. More diapers, more bottles, more everything. More love."

"I wasn't ready for one baby. Now we're having two ?" I try not to cry, but it is futile. The tears leak.

You slide up onto the couch, shift me onto you, and now I am lying on top of you, hearing your heartbeat, slow, steady, reassuring. "It's going to be okay, babe. We've got this."

"We do?" I am not so sure, and I sound it.

"Of course we do. I've got love to spare, sweetness." You kiss me. Make me look at you so I understand, so I do not just listen, but truly hear . "If I have enough love for you and one baby, I've got enough for you and two babies. And Isabel? So do you."

"But I don't know how to have a baby. I don't know how to be a mother, Logan."

"Yes, you do."

I shake my head. "I barely remember my mother. All I have are a few random memories. How will I know what to do?"

"The memories you do have, what are they like?"

I breathe in, and then out, thinking. "I have the impression that she was a wonderful mother. She took care of me. She loved me. And she took care of and loved my father."

"That's all you need to know, Isabel. She loved you, she took care of you. And these babies inside you"—Your palm goes to my belly—"You will love them, both of them. You will take care of them. The how? The mechanics of being a parent? I don't think anyone is really ready for that, babe. But you do it. You learn, you figure it out. We'll figure it out together, okay? We'll love them, together . We'll take care of them, together ."

I nod. I feel somewhat reassured, but still scared.

And it dawns on me that You found a way, once again, to tell me it would be okay without saying so.

The next several months are spent becoming increasingly big with pregnancy, and getting the nonprofit corporation set up.

I've decided on a name—for the corporation, not the babies: The Indigo Foundation. It's your money, Caleb. You earned it. You worked for it. It will be your legacy, carried out by Logan and me.

I couldn't begin to explain or understand the complexities of setting up something of this scale, so I am thankful every single day for You, Logan, for how easily You facilitate the process, creating accounts and interviewing staff and moving the money around and thousand other things, on top of running Your own business. For my part, I have been researching charities, looking into the laws and regulations regarding donations and funding, deciding what I'm going to do once the whole thing is set up.

It is a lengthy process.

This will not be a small undertaking. It will be, as You said, a lifelong project. It is a gobsmacking amount of money, and there are an unlimited number of causes in need of funding and support. I am overwhelmed just thinking about it, compiling the lists. There is so much to know, so many causes that are worthy and in need. Which do I pick first?

You are in the chair beside me, working as well; You work from home almost exclusively now, having made some promotions in the office and rearranged things in order to be with me as much as possible. I am nearing my due date— any day now , our doctor tells us—and You don't want to be away from me for even a moment. You have attended every doctor visit. You personally painted the nursery—green, a neutral color, because, as we discovered at the gender-reveal ultrasound, we are having a girl and a boy.

Camila, for my mother, and Luis, for my father.

You put together bassinets and cribs and bouncers, picked out onesies and bibs—blue ones for Luis, and pink for Camila—stocked up on diapers and wipes and ointments from the Honest Company. If I feel them kicking, you put your palm to my belly. And what a belly it is. I feel mammoth, so enormous I can barely move. Everything hurts. Being pregnant is definitely real now. Too real. Camila and Luis are there, inside me, ready to come out. I need them out, I need to be done being pregnant. It is exhausting, taxing, draining. I am in a fog, and merely walking down the stairs from the bedroom to the kitchen takes an eternity, and I have to rest halfway down, and then again once I reach the bottom.

I try to picture doing this alone, being a mother, having an unexpected child. No Logan to comfort and provide for and protect and love. I try to picture a woman, large with child, making her way down the streets of New York, on aching feet, exhausted from working to keep the roof over her head, food in the kitchen.

And I know what The Indigo Foundation's first project will be: a resource center for single mothers, a chain of them across the country, even. Bills paid. Pantries stocked. Nurseries prepared. Childcare provided. Postpartum depression therapy. Regular get-togethers of other single moms in the area, for mutual support and willing ears who understand the hardship.

I draft an e-mail outlining my idea and send it to You. Within fifteen minutes, You have returned the email with practical next steps: find a location for the first center, begin interviewing staff, set up the charter and structure, find additional donors, locate resources to tie in, food pantries and daycares and patient advocates and babysitting services. The list is massive, and daunting. But it provides me with additional steps to begin working on.

I decide the first center will be in Queens, an area that seems, in my limited estimation, in need of such a service. I make a list of potential available locations based on a quick real estate search, send it to You, and You in turn send it to one of the assistants You hired for the foundation, who then immediately heads to Queens with an itinerary and a list of needs from a potential location.

The day is consumed with this work, and the hours fly by quickly. Karen, the assistant, reports three likely locations for me to choose from. Merely from a few e-mails You send to former clients, we secure several donors for the project, and I come up with a long list of resource providers that are interested in partnering with the center.

I need a name, though.

I decide, temporarily at least, on MiN: Mothers in Need.

Realizing I've been working for several hours without a break, and that my bladder is screaming at me, I decide to take a break. I've also been feeling occasional contractions for the last few hours, what I assume are Braxton-Hicks contractions, and usually getting and walking around helps them go away.

So I stand up, and I'm immediately gripped by a sharp, painful contraction.

Pop ; warmth and wetness on my thighs, streaming down my legs.

"Logan?" I keep my voice quiet, calm.

You glance up. I'm wearing a loose, ankle-length dress, so there's no visible evidence of what's going on. "Yeah, babe."

"My water just broke."

You blink at me for the space of ten seconds, and then You're up, grabbing my laptop and Yours. You say nothing. We've discussed this. You take my arm, guide me inside. Grab the overnight bag You've had prepped for the last two months. I stop in the bathroom to put on a pad and grab a couple extra, and then we're in the car, and You're driving with barely restrained frustration through the typical Manhattan traffic. It's a Friday, six in the evening, which means traffic is a snarled nightmare.

You're holding my hand and driving with the other. Your jaw is tensing.

"Logan?" You shoot me a look. "Take a breath. It's okay. We'll get there."

"In this traffic, you could be having the babies in the car."

I gesture out the window. "Well, good thing there's an ambulance right there."

And there is, too, trundling along two lanes over, lights off, siren off, the driver's arm hanging out the open window.

You laugh, finally. "Why are you calmer than I am?"

I shrug. "Probably because the contractions haven't really started yet. Give me time, I'm sure I'll start panicking soon."

And, oh, how right I am. The contractions haven't even really begun in earnest yet, from what I've read. They're still several minutes apart, and yes, painful, but not as bad as what I've read has led me to expect. What has me panicking is the knowledge that—again, according to everything I've read—once my water has broken, the only options are to have the babies naturally or to have a C-section. What if I can't have them naturally? I don't want a C-section. I don't want to be cut open. But what if something is wrong that I don't know about? What if we take too long getting to the hospital and the babies go into distress? I really don't want to have the babies on the side of the road, for all that I joked about it with You. That was to calm You down; I need You calm, in control. Because I am panicking now.

And a contraction has me in its grip.

Sharp, fierce, aching, clamping, so sudden and crushing I can't breathe. So painful it makes me whimper.

"Breathe, honey, breathe through it. Remember? Like at the class." You went to the Lamaze classes with me.

I try to breathe. Just like a panic attack, I have to force the oxygen into my lungs, force them to expand and suck in air, and then I have to force them to contract, expel the air. And again. God, it hurts.

I'm starting to think the contractions I was feeling weren't Braxton-Hicks contractions—practice contractions—but real, actual labor. Which means I could be closer to having these babies than I thought. I glance at the clock as the contraction finally releases me: 7:32 p.m.

We inch through traffic, stuck between blocks, waiting through cycle after cycle of the traffic light. Inch by inch, forcing myself to think of nothing, to just breathe and just be. Fight the panic, fight the anticipation of when the next contraction will hit. Inch by inch, minute by minute. We make it through the intersection after five minutes. At the eight-minute mark almost exactly, another contraction strikes.

I try to remember what I've read about the stages of labor, but my brain will not supply the answers.

Two more sequences of contraction/rest, and we finally reach the block where we have to turn. And then, God, we're stuck on that block. And the next. Inch by inch, minute by minute. You aren't talking, which is fine, but You are still holding my hand, and You don't say a word when I bear down with each contraction, squeezing Your hand until I'm sure I'm close to breaking bones. You just tolerate it, and squeeze back.

By the time we reach the hospital, the contractions are six minutes apart.

You pull under the ER pavilion, and we're met by a large black male nurse with a wheelchair, who greets us by name; apparently You called ahead? I don't remember that. I remember hearing Your voice, but I was in the middle of a contraction at the moment and had no attention to spare.

I'm wheeled through the hospital—but You're not at my side. Where are You? Parking the car, I think. But I need You, Logan. I can't do this without You, not any of it.

I feel You first, as I always do. And then Your hand is in mine and You're beside me, kissing the back of my hand, telling me it's going to be okay. A contraction hits, and when it clears, we're in the maternity ward, and I'm being helped to my feet, out of my clothes, into a gown, into bed. Wires connected, monitors and leads. Another contraction, hard and painful. But still six minutes apart.

I need them closer together, not because I want the pain but because the closer they are together the sooner I'll have my babies in my arms. The sooner this will be over. The sooner I'll know my babies are safe, and healthy.

By the time a doctor shows up, I'm embroiled in the battle against panic. It's taking too long. The contractions are too far apart. It took over an hour before the OB showed up to check me.

The OB is an older man, medium height, thin, with small, almost delicate hands. Bald, but with a short, trimmed beard going white.

I'm almost fully dilated, but not very far effaced. Which means more labor.

God, it hurts.

Another two hours of pain, and then another doctor shows up: the anesthesiologist. I'm turned to sit on the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the edge, my gown pushed forward, nearly off. A minute or two of preparation, packages being opened, sterile gloves tugged on.

"Dad, you may want to step out for this," the anesthesiologist says to You.

"I'm a combat veteran," You say. "Not gonna freak out over a needle. And there's no way in hell I'm leaving her."

"Well then, pull up a chair in front of her. Hold her hands and let her put her forehead on your shoulder." You do as he says, and there's a smear of cold on my back. "This is iodine, to clean the area. Now, hunch your back for me. Lean your forehead on Dad's shoulder and push your spine out toward me. Good. Yeah, now hold it like that—hold real still for me, okay? Deep breath in... and let it out all the way.... Now a quick pinch—"

Jesus, that's not a pinch, it feels like a fucking sword being shoved through my flesh. I breathe through it, teeth clamped, squeezing Your hands so hard I think I hear bones being ground together. You are stoic, letting me crush Your hands, watching the doctor insert the needle. I stare at Your feet, at the worn, beloved Adidas sneakers You've owned for so many years, the laces tied in a permanent double knot, tongue tugged to one side, heels scuffed and frayed from years of shoving Your feet into them. Breathe through the pain as the doctor fiddles with things at my back.

"Okay," the doctor says, "that's in, all connected. I'm gonna start you off kind of low, and they'll crank it up as you go. Good luck, Mom and Dad."

There's a rushing sense of numbness spreading through me, a sense of relief. Calm. I can see the contraction-measuring device's readout from my bed, and I watch with wonder as the readout shows a contraction, but I feel nothing. Blessed, peaceful nothing.

Another three long boring hours and the OB comes back, checks me again. "You're effacing nicely, Miss de la Vega, almost a hundred percent now, and fully dilated. That's good news. And your contractions are consistently a minute or two apart now, which means we're getting closer to baby time. You'll get there. Not long now." A pat to my hand, and then the OB is gone again, white coat billowing, bald head gleaming.

Despite the OB's promise of "not long now," it is still several more hours before anything changes. I'm dozing, rolling from one side to another. I start to feel an ache. Distant, but real. A sense of the contraction through the epidural, a clamping down of my womb. And a need to push.

You're sleeping, curled up awkwardly on the fold-out chair/bed, asleep instantly in that soldier's way You have.

I endure the ache and the need to push for a few minutes, but then it starts to become unbearable, pushing down on me, a kind of desperation infusing me.

I push the call button, and within seconds a nurse is bustling in, efficient, energetic, eyeing the monitor, casting a glance at You.

"Oops, looks like it's go time, Mama." A nudge to Your foot. "Wake up, Dad, you're about to have some babies."

You sit up immediately, rub Your eyes, blink a few times, and then the room is full of people. One person does something to the bed, removing part of it and unfolding stirrups, lifting my feet high and wide, spreading me open for the whole room to see. I'm beyond caring, though, because now even with the epidural the pain and need to push is all-consuming. Someone else has turned on blinding lights overhead. Another person is getting supplies ready, and yet another—or maybe it's the same few nurses moving in efficient harmony—is turning on a machine and shoving aside the chairs.

"Go stand by her head, Dad," the OB says, by way of entrance. "Hold her hand and when I tell her to push, you count to ten. She takes a breath, and then you count to ten again. Okay? Oh, yep, here we go. Moving right along, aren't we? Maria, can you cut the epidural off? She needs to feel the contractions now. It's gonna hurt a bit, but you have to feel them so you know when to push. Hold your man's hand and break his fingers if you have to, we'll fix them when you're done."

A nurse does something the IV feed, and the epidural fades, a reversal of how it kicked in. Peace, calm, relief... it all fades away, replaced by crushing, all-consuming, fierce, fiery agony. All-pervading pressure centered on my womb and my bowels. There is no space between the contractions, it feels like, no chance to catch my breath, just wave after wave, one contraction on the heels of the last, and the need to push, push, push.

"Not yet, Mom, don't push yet." The OB is putting on a kind of gown covering the front, and then a kind of clear plastic face mask, and a pair of sterile gloves. "Okay, I think we're set. Here comes a contraction, Mom, get ready to push. Deep breath in... and PUSH! Count for her, Dad!"

I hear You, feel You. I bear down with every fiber of my being, teeth clenched. I don't scream, don't waste the effort on it. Just push, push, as hard as I can, while You count.

". . . Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten!"

I let out the breath, gasping, whimpering, turn to look up at You, try to smile when You take a moment to brush my sweaty hair out of my face. And then I'm sucking in a breath and bearing down, pushing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"Good, Mom! You're doing great, the first one is crowning! Keep pushing, keep pushing!" I take a quick breath and push even harder, and then there's a feeling of being emptied, something pulled out of me, and there's a moment of silence, a brief respite from the pain.

And then a sound fills the room, and I am irrevocably altered. A sound, and my heart now exists in the world outside of my body.

A cry.

Small, fragile, but strong and loud.

A wail, high and thin and quavering.

"You've got a girl, Mama!" The OB lays a wet, warm, wriggling, squalling body on my chest, still smeared with blood and effluvia. Light hair, blond, thick in a ruff over the top of her head in a mohawk. Little fists shaking, clenched. Little feet kicking.

"Hi, Camila," I whisper, clinging to her, cuddling her close. "Hi, baby girl."

But then another contraction rips through me, and I have to push again, because oh yeah, there's another baby inside me still, ready to come out.

A nurse takes Camila and then I can't think or breathe or feel anything but the ache, the grip, the pressure, and You're counting and I'm pushing.

It hurts.

I'm exhausted.

But I'm not done yet, so I push.

You count, and I push.

Is it hours, or minutes, that I push, crushing Your hands in a death grip? I don't know, cannot measure time, only the increments of one through ten and the brief respite between contractions and the pushpushpushpush pushPUSH , almost there, keeping pushing, Mama...

Another push, and then the same pulling emptying sensation, a sense of relief, and the silence... the cry.

Oh, that cry.

It pulls at my heart, slices me open, puts my world, my life, my being, my love into a little bundle, a wailing wriggling bundle of baby boy.

"Here he is, Mama, a boy! He and his sister have all their fingers and toes!" But there's an odd note in the OB's voice.

I see why, when my son is settled on my chest.

Camila is fair, and blond. I see her, being lifted, cleaned, diapered, swaddled, and her skin is fair, like Yours, only not tanned golden by the sun as Yours is. Hair is platinum, like yours. And I just know, when she opens her eyes and the irises have adjusted to their permanent shade, they'll be Yours, indigo, blazing blue.

But the boy on my chest . . .

He's dark. Thick black hair. Swarthy skin.

Utterly unlike You.

I sob.

Because I know.

I know.

He is yours, Caleb.

His name isn't Luis.

He is Jakob.

I look to You, and I see that You know as well. I don't know how it's possible, but one look tells me it's not just possible, it's undeniable.

You lean close to me. Kiss me. Brush hair from my face with a broad thumb, smile, that beautiful, sun-warm smile. "He's perfect, Isabel."

"But he's—"

"Mine, my love. He's mine. He's ours . Okay?" You lift him, slimy and afterbirth-gray, crying, shaking angry, indignant fists, and cradle him to your chest. "His name is Jakob."

Did I say that out loud? I don't think I did.

I know I did not.

So that is You, claiming the child as Your own, loving him as Your own, even though, somehow, genetically he is not. You claim him, but honor the genetic father.

Not Caleb, but Jakob.

Jakob, the man I could have fallen in love with, had I known him. Jakob, the man, I believe, who let me go.

I'm not quite done yet, though.

I have to push again, one more time, to deliver the afterbirth.

I push through it, but I'm focused on You, now holding Camila and Jakob both, one in each arm, and the pain is nothing to the fierce wild all-consuming ache of love.

Jakob is taken, cleaned, diapered, tested, swaddled, and I'm allowed to get up and shower and eat something—it's been hours, almost a whole day, and I'm starving.

And then I have my babies, my son and my daughter. Sleeping, nuzzling against me, mewling now, hunting. Latching on, fumbling at my nipples, and then latching on perfectly. Suckling, and the tug is sharp and beautiful as my milk flows.

And You're there, sitting beside me, watching me feed our babies.

"I love you so much, Logan." It's all I know how to say, right now. I don't even know how to verbalize or even understand myself the emotions regarding Jakob's genetic heritage. "I just—I love you."

You have tear tracks on Your face, and You are proud of them, I think. To weep at the birth of Your children is the mark of a man in touch with his emotions, I think; a sign of strength and confidence rather than a mark of weakness. You have brought a life into the world. A new life, and it is beautiful. It is enormous. Momentous, and life-changing.

You lean in, kiss me, kiss Jakob, kiss Camila—

So this is what completion feels like.

"What we're looking at," the doctor says, a day after the birth, "is heteropaternal superfecundation."

The doctor pauses, taps the heel of a shoe with the tip of a pen. Glances at me, and I can feel the silent, unspoken, but very real judgment.

"In layman's terms, it's when a woman releases more than one egg in the same cycle, and those two eggs are both fertilized by sperm from separate acts of sexual intercourse with different males." Another pause, a glance to me, to You, back to the shoes. "It is extremely rare, but there have been a few other documented cases. I've been delivering babies for thirty-two years, and I've never seen it before. What it means, practically speaking, is that the two children are fraternal twins, genetic half siblings, despite being developed and carried in the same womb."

You speak up for me. "So how are they?"

"Camila and Jakob are doing beautifully. Healthy, scored high on all the postbirth tests, they're eating well from Mom, great lung development. Absolutely no issues whatsoever."

"So aside from genetics . . . ?"

"Genetics aside? They're beautiful, healthy twins. You can go home in the morning."

"Thank you, Doctor." You dismiss the doctor, standing up, extending your hand. Making it clear the time to exit is now. When the doctor is gone, You turn to me, take my hand. "What a dick."

"He didn't say anything unprofessional," I point out, even though I feel the same way.

"He didn't say anything, no, but the looks he was giving you, the way he explained it..." You shrug. "Whatever. He's gone. But I didn't like him."

"I felt it too. But it doesn't matter. He doesn't know me, or my life, or my situation. All I care about is you, and our babies."

"Me too."

And so we do.

We buckle the tiny little sleeping bundles into the car seats, murmuring at how tiny they look in the big seats. You carry them both, one seat in each hand, while a nurse pushes me in a wheelchair. You settle them on either side of me while You fetch the car, and then You click the seats into the bases, check that each one is secure, and then You help me into the SUV, practically lifting me up and in. I am weak, sore, tired, and exhilarated to be going home.

Emotionally, I haven't really sorted through the reality of Jakob, yet. Maybe I never will.

He's mine. He's Yours, Logan. But... he already looks so much like you, Caleb. When he blinks those big brown eyes, he's you . He cries when he's hungry, and there's a demanding note to his cry that, to me, sounds like you. It is eerie. His jawline is you, his nose is you. The bridge of his nose is you. God, he's you , Caleb.

I ruminate on it as You drive us home, Logan, driving slowly, carefully, defensively. Braking gently, accelerating gently. Music low, tuned to classical.

I am still deep in thought when we get home. You carry them in, instructing me to stay put, and then You come back for me. They are sleeping, so we leave them in their seats. We collapse together on the couch, and You pull me against Your chest, so I can hear Your heartbeat. I begin to doze. Sink, drift— thumpthump, thumpthump, thumpthump —sun warm from the windows soaking into my skin, bathing my closed eyes.

And then a cry. Small and quiet at first, a hesitant quavering.

Just one.

You get up, unbuckle the crying child—Jakob. Hand him to me, and I cradle him against my chest. God, so tiny. So warm, so soft. So sweet. I lift up my shirt, expose my breast, and tickle his quivering lips with my nipple. He works his mouth, snuffles and snorts, shakes his head side to side, and then latches on with ferocious hunger and alert determination. He's so tiny still I can support him with one hand, and stroke his thick black hair with the other.

You watch, a little awed, a lot moved. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Your voice is low, rough.

I keep stroking little Jakob's hair but my eyes are for You. "I have to say it, out loud, at least once." I glance down at Jakob, then back up. "Caleb is Jakob's biological father, and you are Camila's."

"But they're both mine."

"I know. And I—I don't doubt that for a moment," I say.

"It might be a little tricky to explain, if he ever starts asking questions when he's older."

"We'll figure that out when it happens." I smile. "I just had to say it, because... inside, it doesn't feel as if it matters."

"It doesn't. Not really." You offer me a smile, a quintessential Logan Ryder smile, the one that warms me from the inside out. "It's nature versus nurture, Isabel. If you were to separate identical twins, and one was raised in a hellhole of rage and violence, and the other in a loving home full of affection, you'd very likely have two wildly different people emerge as adults. Because the environment in which a person is raised makes all the difference. Caleb could have been... someone totally different had his parents lived. Had his cousin not turned him out on the street. Had any number of events in his life been different."

"You came out of some very difficult circumstances yourself, and look at the kind of man you are."

A shrug. "We each can only do the best with what we're given. That's all I've done. Yet, too, we each make our own choices in life. I chose to change. To try to improve myself. To be better. I think at some point, Caleb just... gave in to the kind of man his environment was conspiring to create, rather than trying to rise above it. It's not up to me to judge him, to either absolve him or vilify him. I didn't know him well enough, and it's not my place even if I did. I know how I feel about him, based on my interaction with him, and based on the way he treated you, but that's it."

"So what you're saying, then, is that despite being Caleb's, genetically, how we raise him will determine the kind of man he'll become."

"Right. He'll have the admittedly impressive genetic potential of Caleb, but you and I will raise him to not have the... questionable ethics Caleb showed as an adult."

"I like that idea," I say with a smile.

"So do I."

Camila starts crying just then, right as Jakob unlatches, a little milk dribbling down his chin. You unbuckle Camila, hand her to me and in exchange for Jakob, cradle him to Your chest, settle onto the couch beside me. You hold a sleepy, milk-drunk Jakob, I feed Camila, and we relax together.

A family.

That's when it dawns on me, hitting me like a ton of bricks, like a freight train:

I have a family.

The realization brings tears of happiness to my eyes. I let them roll, because it is a beautiful thing, this understanding. I was orphaned, not just of my parents, but of my entire self, of my life. I've come to find myself, but now, with You and Camila and Jakob, I have a family of my own.

And now, with these two little lives dependent on me, with Your love to sustain me, my past doesn't matter quite as much.

Perhaps not at all, honestly. Madame X is no more, except in being part of the formation of the woman I am now, Isabel de la Vega.

A wife, someday.

A mother now.

And, in time, a philanthropist.