𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞.
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I opened the door to Lorenzo's office, which was a masculine, spacious, and luxurious room with a dark, old-money theme...
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March 17th
2 weeks later
I sat in the dimly lit nursery, cradling Alora in my arms. Her tiny body was warm against mine, her delicate breath soft and steady. I watched her chest rise and fall, each exhale a gentle reminder of the life I had brought into this world. The clock on the wall read 7 PM, but time felt irrelevant in this sacred space. My mind drifted back to when she was still inside me, those precious moments when I felt her tiny kicks and movements.
I could almost feel the flutter of her kicks in my womb, the way she would stretch and press against the confines of my belly. Those moments had been a mix of discomfort and pure joy, knowing that she was alive and growing inside me. Tears welled up in my eyes as I remembered the bond we had shared even before her birth.
But then, the darker memories surfaced. The postpartum depression had hit me hard. It was as if a dark cloud had settled over my mind, obscuring the joy I should have felt. I had read about it, heard other mothers talk about it, but nothing had prepared me for the reality of it. The overwhelming sadness, the crushing guilt, the sense of failure. I felt like I was drowning in it.
Enzo had been the first to notice. His eyes, usually so full of determination and confidence, had softened with concern. He had taken action immediately, hiring a home nanny, mental health specialists, and physical therapists. He had ensured that I was surrounded by support, even though he was busier than ever with work. He hadn't been home much, leaving before I woke and returning long after I had put Alora to bed. Yet, he always took care of Alora during the night, letting me sleep. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything to me.
In the early days, I had barely produced any milk. I remember sitting in the nursery, tears streaming down my face as I struggled to feed my baby. The frustration, the sense of inadequacy—it was almost too much to bear. But gradually, my body had adjusted. Now, I was producing more than enough milk for Alora, and the relief I felt was immense.
I kissed Alora's forehead and gently placed her in her bassinet. She stirred slightly but didn't wake. I stood there for a moment, just watching her, before I turned and left the room. The elevator ride down was slow, each second stretching out as I leaned against the wall, feeling the residual aches from childbirth. Stairs were still too painful, but the elevator was a small mercy.
As I stepped out of the elevator, my phone slipped from my hand and clattered to the floor. I bent down to pick it up, feeling the familiar tug of discomfort in my abdomen. Before I could grab it, I sensed Enzo's presence. His eyes were on me, and I felt the intensity of his gaze travel over my body. My skin tingled under his scrutiny, and I straightened up, turning to face him.
Enzo was standing there, his expression unreadable. He closed the distance between us in a few swift steps, his hands finding my waist. He pulled me close, his face burying into the crook of my neck. I inhaled sharply, the scent of him filling my senses.
"Hmmm, I missed you," he whispered, his voice a low rumble against my skin. His hands roamed down to my hips, and he squeezed gently. A surprised whimper escaped my lips.
"Yeah," I whispered back, my voice shaky. "We really need to make time for each other and figure out a schedule."
He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His lips found mine in a slow, tender kiss. It was a kiss that spoke of longing and unspoken words, a kiss that bridged the gap that had grown between us over the past weeks.
When we finally pulled away, I took his hand and led him to the kitchen. Cooking had become a way for me to express my love, a love language that I had discovered since our marriage. I started preparing paella, the familiar rhythm of chopping and stirring soothing my restless mind.
Enzo disappeared for a moment, reappearing shirtless, his muscular frame making my heart skip a beat. He moved behind me as I was about to plate the food, his arms wrapping around my waist. He pressed a kiss to my neck, making me shiver.
"Smells good," he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. I leaned into his embrace, feeling the weight of his body against mine.
"Thank you," I replied softly. "I hope you like it."
We sat down to eat, the warm, comforting flavors of the paella filling the air. Enzo's eyes never left mine, and I felt the connection between us strengthening with each shared bite. It was in these simple moments that I felt closest to him, despite the physical distance that had grown between us.
After dinner, we sat together on the couch, Alora sleeping soundly in her bassinet nearby. Enzo held me close, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my arm.
"We'll get through this," he whispered, his voice full of determination. "Together."
I nodded, tears pricking at my eyes again. "I know we will."
In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart, I believed him. We would get through this. Together.
