Page 179 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

‘What happened could not have been predicted,’ Vincenzo said. Concern was in his voice.

‘But if you hadn’t been there—’ Fear was in her again.

Vincenzo held up a hand. ‘You would have phoned, and your midwife would have called you in—just as happened. You would have taken a taxi to the hospital—you said you had the number on standby. So please do not think about it any more. Everything was safe in the end.’ His gaze went from her back to the crib. ‘How is he? He looks so peaceful. So—’

He broke off. Siena could hear the emotion in his voice, see it in his face.

‘Perfect,’ she said, her own voice softening, filling with love. ‘Just perfect.’

For a moment they just gazed at him, so tiny, so perfect...

‘Have...have you thought about names?’ she heard Vincenzo ask. His voice was tentative.

So was hers as she answered. ‘How about something for your father?’ she ventured uncertainly.

‘My father’s name was Roberto,’ he said slowly, as if trying it out.

She thought about it, tried it out too. ‘Robert in English. Rob or Bob—or Bobby.’

It sounded good.

‘And for your father? A second name?’ Vincenzo was asking.

The shake of her head was instinctive.

Vincenzo frowned. Looked at her. His gaze searching. Perceptive. ‘What is it?’

She didn’t answer immediately—could not. Memory was knifing through her—and all the terrible emotions that went with that memory.

She heard Vincenzo draw a chair close, sit down beside her.

‘What is it?’ he asked again, his voice low. Troubled.

She plucked at her bedclothes, not wanting to look at him. Keeping her gaze lowered. Feeling the overpowering presence of the baby in his crib beside her bed. Her safe, healthy baby...

So utterly unlike—

‘Can you tell me?’ Vincenzo’s voice was still low.

Her face worked. She didn’t want to tell him, but knew she must.

There was so much she could not say to him—could never say—but this she could. And maybe she needed to say it for herself, too. To help her make sense of the way she had been since learning she was pregnant.

She took a breath, making herself look at Vincenzo. That itself was hard to do. Emotion twisted inside her—so much emotion—for so many reasons, so tangled and knotted.

But this was one she could unknot...make sense of.

‘You asked me when we were in Selcombe why I hadn’t gone to art school when I was a teenager.’ She began, her voice low. ‘I... I never really answered you.’

She paused again, looking away for a moment. Then made herself continue. It was so sorry a tale—so desperately sad...

‘I didn’t go,’ she said, ‘because my brother and his wife had just had a baby. And the baby—’ She broke off again, then made herself look at Vincenzo, her expression bleak—for what else could it be? ‘He was severely disabled,’ she said heavily. ‘There was a cruel, incurable congenital condition, inherited from my sister-in-law, that meant he was life-limited. He needed round-the-clock support, even when they could finally take him home. They were in pieces...distraught. And I...well, I stayed at home to help them. Practical care, emotional support... It was just...just dreadful.’

She paused again, then made herself continue.

‘He was named after my father—and he...he died last year.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘His death, expected though it was, broke my brother and his wife. They...they emigrated to Australia, to put it all behind them.’

She broke off, unable to speak any more. Yet there was more that she must say.

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