Page 29 of Rome with Dad's Best Friend

Only one person remains. I look back at Simon, waiting to hear his reaction. The two of us could not be happier, and I only hope that he can see that.

A long moment passes. In the end, I almost think that he will tell us that we don’t have his blessing, that he wants me to leave, that I won’t see his daughter for as long as he is alive. But then he raises his head, tears shining in his eyes, and I know that we have him at last.

“You look after my daughter,” he says, his voice choked. “Damnit, Marco. I only say this because I can see how happy she is. But if you ever make her unhappy, if you make her cry or break her heart, so help me God…”

“I know, old friend,” I say, laying a hand on his shoulder. I understand everything that he’s trying to say, even if he struggles for the words. I feel the same way about anyone who would hurt Hannah. “You will tear me limb from limb and feed me to the dogs. I would deserve nothing less.”

Simon nods his face a warring landscape of different emotions and accepts a hug from his daughter. He still refuses to look at me over the top of her head, and I know that it might be some time until things are comfortable again. But that’s fine. Because after everything, I have the one thing I want more than anything in the world. My Hannah. Even when I didn’t know it was her that I was looking for, I was searching.

And now that I have her, my life is complete.

Well, except, just maybe, for the pitter-patter of tiny feet…EpilogueHannahI’m in the kitchen when I hear the front door open and close, and a gentle chime plays. These days, Marco’s coming home routine might be a bit less dramatic, but I can still always tell when he arrives home.

It was his idea to have the chime play when he comes back. That way our baby girl also knows that her Daddy’s home. I hear a happy gurgle from behind me, where she sits in her playpen, and smile to myself. She’s becoming a real Daddy’s girl.

“We’re in here!” I call out so that he can find us. Before a few moments have passed, I feel a pressure at my back and nuzzle into it. Marco, with his hands on my hips, giving me his homecoming hug. I feel his lips at the top of my head and turn to give him a kiss on the lips, before turning back to stir the pot of boiling water on the stove.

“What delights await us today?” Marco asks, trying to peer into the water to see what’s inside.

“Surprises,” I tell him. “Get changed, will you? It won’t be long before it’s ready.”

Marco kisses my head again, and, with a quick wave at baby Simona, heads upstairs to change. I listen to the familiar sound of his footsteps on the stairs and smile to myself. When I first set foot in here, a little over a year ago, I had no idea that this place would be my home. That the marble countertops and kitchen appliances I admired would be my own domain, for me to do with as I will.

Getting pregnant so quickly definitely changed our plans, but in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can study from home, doing an online degree that is accredited by the college I would have attended anyway, and I get to be with my husband and my baby daughter every day of the week. Not only that but here in beautiful Rome, in Marco’s villa. Our villa, now.

I ladle out the steaming spaghetti, now cooked to perfection, and busy myself with serving it up. The perfect amount of sauce, a few sprinkles of herbs for dressing, and the meatballs perched neatly on top of it all. By the time Marco comes back downstairs in more casual clothing, I’m carrying two full plates to the table, as well as a small bowl of mush for Simona.

“What’s this?” Marco says, with an amused smile. “Spaghetti?”

“Not just any spaghetti,” I tell him, with a proud smile. I can’t help it – I’ve been waiting to show this off for a while. “I finally managed to convince Mamma Luccio to show me how to make her famous sauce.”

Marco’s eyes widen. “This is the Bolognese?”

“The very one,” I tell him, grinning as we take our seats.

“Wait,” Marco says, hesitating with his fork poised above his dinner, clearly eager to get started on it. “This is a special meal.”

“I like to think so,” I tell him.

“But there is no special occasion, is there?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “There’s no anniversary, no one’s birthday, no special holiday…”

---