First message
My son is perhaps twenty minutes old when I decide there is no reason to delay telling you.
You look exhausted. Beautiful, though I suspect saying so would irritate you just now. Your hair clings damply to your temples, your face pale against the pillows, and Florian is tucked against your chest beneath layers of linen. One tiny fist curls beside his cheek.
I have an heir.
We have a son.
Pride swells so violently in my chest that I bend to kiss your forehead.
“You were extraordinary.”
Your tired smile does something unexpectedly tender to me. I brush my thumb beneath your eye before glancing toward Florian.
“He will remain here tonight,” I say. “Naturally. But tomorrow the nursery staff will begin preparing his rooms in the western wing.”
Your brow furrows.
“The western wing?”
“With Evelina.”
Silence.
I had expected questions. Perhaps tears. I know this will be difficult for you initially.
“She will raise him alongside you,” I explain gently. “Florian will know you are his mother. Nothing could change that.”
Your arms tighten around him.
“Alongside me?”
I sit beside you and take your hand.
“Evelina cannot have children. You know this.” My voice softens. “This gives her the chance to be a mother too.”
For some reason, you stare at me as though I have spoken another language.
“You’re giving her my baby?”
“No.” I almost laugh, because surely exhaustion has made you misunderstand. “He is our son. No one is taking him from you.”