Page 79 of Flawed

My mom holds up a little onesie. "This is so cute, isn't it? I think you should take this to the hospital with you for her to wear home."

I look at the pink onesie with sparkles and ruffles on it. "Kind of fancy for a hospital, isn't it, Mom?"

She dramatically gasps. "Ma chérie! For your daughter's first outfit? I think not! And look! We can put this over her when we're ready to leave. She holds up a pink trench coat, white tights with pink hearts, and blingy booties.

I tilt my head, assessing the items. While it's adorable, I imagine my baby wearing it to a party, not home from the hospital. But I don't care to argue. My mom is so excited about her grandbaby that I don't want to rain on her parade. I reply, "Whatever makes you happy."

Disapproval fills her expression. "Don't you care what your child wears home?"

I shake my head. "As long as she's clothed and warm, I don't think it'll matter."

Shock fills my mother's face. She states, "This is a big moment. We'll need to take pictures. And you'll always remember this moment."

I put my hand on my hip and tilt my head, inquiring, "Okay, what did I wear home?"

She rolls her eyes. "You wore all white because your grandmother insisted."

I shrug. "What's wrong with all white?"

"Tsk, tsk!" she says, her eyes widening. "It's a girl. She should wear pink."

My father yells, "Sophia! Screwdriver!"

"Whoops! Better take this to Dad," I say, picking up the screwdriver.

"So I'll pack this?" Mom questions with hope in her eyes.

I cave. "Sure."

She claps, and I can't help but smile. Ever since I confessed everything to my parents, I've enjoyed my pregnancy a lot more. I'm excited for the baby to come, and things don't seem so impossible anymore.

I take the screwdriver to the bedroom. "Here you go, Dad."

He grabs it. "Thanks, mon chou."

I smile bigger. Every now and then, he tries to find out who the father is, but he's pushing less and less these days. My mother always steps in. But since he found out I was pregnant, he's started calling me mon chou like I was a young girl. It's a term of endearment fathers call their daughters in France, but it literally means sweetheart. I made him stop calling me it when I was a teenager, but it's somehow worked back into his vocabulary. And I actually find it comforting and sweet now.

"Wow. That looks great!" I beam. The crib's almost put together. He's on the last part. It matches the same dark wood and pewter as the rest of my apartment's furnishings.

After I moved into the condo, maybe I should have gotten rid of all the furniture Luca gave me. But something wouldn't let me.

One day, I went to the same store where Luca bought me everything. I picked out a matching bedroom set and some furniture for the den.

They didn't have cribs, so maybe that's why I put everything off so long. But yesterday, when my parents and I were at the third store, I found the crib, dresser, and oversized rocking chair. They match perfectly, and everything now feels like it fits.

Having more furniture that matches what Luca bought me feels like he's with me. It's the only part of him I can give my daughter, so while it's silly, I couldn't help myself.

My parents spent the rest of yesterday painting the walls pink. I would have left it the off-white color, but my mom insisted. Now that it's done, I'm happy she pushed me to allow them to paint it.

My father takes a screwdriver and fastens the last bolt. He steps back. Pride radiates on his face as he announces, "All done."

I give him a hug. "You did good, Dad."

He embraces me back and murmurs, "I know your mom says that she gets to be the first to hold the baby, but—"

"Ouch!" I shriek, clutching my stomach.

My father's eyes widen. "Mon chou!"

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