Chapter 240
I used to dream of this life–quiet mornings, a home that smelled like brewed coffee and baby powder, and someone to kiss me on the forehead before I even opened my eyes. But that dream had always come with a price tag–one I feared I could never afford again after everything I’d lost.
Until Inigo. Until now.
The moment the doctor told me that the damage from the miscarriage was irreversible, I hadn’t cried. Not right away. I sat there, numb, staring at my hands while Inigo gripped mine tightly as if trying to will away the silence between the words.
I couldn’t carry a child again.”
But Inigo–he only kissed my knuckles and said, “We’ll have a child… just not in the way we imagined. But that doesn’t make it any less ours.“}
That night, I cried in his arms, whispering sorry again and again. Sorry for my broken body. Sorry for the life we had to alter. Sorry because a part of me still believed I had failed.”
But he hushed me gently, held me tighter, and said something I will never forget:
“Love isn’t about blood, Samantha. It’s about staying. Choosing. Again and again. You are not less. You are everything.”
And he meant it.”
Nine months later, we were in the hospital again–but this time, the air was different. Hope danced in every sterile corner of the room.
Laughter echoed in the hallway. And when the nurse walked out of the delivery room carrying a pink bundle in her arms, I felt the earth tilt beneath my feet.”
“She’s perfect,” I whispered, my hands trembling as I held our daughter for the first time.
Inigo knelt beside me, his arms around both of us. “She’s ours.”
We named her Solène, which meant “dignified and solemn” -because even in her tininess, she felt like something sacred. A promise fulfilled.”
The weeks that followed were a beautiful chaos.\
Solène’s cries filled our nights, but her smiles filled our days. Inigo was a natural–changing diapers one–handed while reading business reports in the other.”
He always said he hated early mornings, but I often found him humming lullabies at sunrise, our daughter asleep against his chest.
And me? I never thought I’d feel full again. But every feeding, every bath, every late–night rocking in the nursery reminded me that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means choosing joy even after you’ve known deep sorrow.
We brought Solène home to the estate, where her nursery was painted in shades of peach and ivory, right next to our bedroom. Sasha cried the first time she held her granddaughter, whispering, “She’s got your eyes… and your fight.“”
I didn’t disagree.%
The flower shop became a second home for all three of us. We even installed a little cradle behind the counter so I could keep her near me while arranging bouquets. Customers cooed at her daily and soon enough, she became the shop’s little mascot. Some even joked she was our “flower fairy.“”
Inigo, of course, took it upon himself to ensure we still had our moments of peace amid the whirlwind of parenting.
Every Sunday, without fail, he would drag me to the back garden after Solène’s nap, pour us both tea, and say, “Ten minutes. Just us.”
Sometimes we sat in silence. Sometimes we planned our future. But always, we held hands–and smiled.
One evening, as I rocked Solène to sleep, I glanced down at her sleepy little face and whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t carry you myself.”
My voice cracked with guilt that hadn’t completely left me.”
But Inigo, who stood by the door, watching us with tired but content eyes, walked over and kissed my shoulder.
“You carried her, Samantha, he said. “In your heart. Every single day. That’s what being a mother is.“”
I held onto his words like a lifeline.it
Because he was right.
We had photoshoots in the flower fields. We framed a picture of Solène sitting in a wicker basket surrounded by peonies and roses–her tiny hands gripping a daisy.
That photo hung in the front of the store, right next to our wedding picture. Some days, customers came just to see her smile.
Sasha often stayed over to help. I would catch her watching me sometimes–eyes brimming with emotion, as if trying to reconcile the girl who once ran from her with the woman now blooming in motherhood.
One night quartos che esid quietly I’m proud of you”
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11:04 AM
One night over tea, she said quietly, “I’m proud of you.“/
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I wouldn’t have made it here without you. Without Inigo.”
She took my hand. “But you were the one who walked. That matters.”
Then there were the quiet nights.
The ones where Inigo and I sat outside with Solène in our arms, watching the stars appear one by one.
“Do you think she’ll remember all this?” I asked once, brushing a kiss to her forehead.”
“No,” he said. “But she’ll feel it. She’ll grow up knowing what love is.“”
That thought stayed with me for days.”
Because that was all I had ever wanted. To build a world where love wasn’t painful. Where she would never have to question if she was wanted.
One afternoon, we got an unexpected delivery at the shop. It was from Jackson.
A simple card.
“Congratulations. She’s beautiful. I’m glad you got your happiness.”
I showed it to Inigo.
He just nodded. “He finally let go.”
And I realized I had too.”
There was no more pain when I thought of the past. Just lessons. And a quiet sort of gratitude for the storm that led me here.
Now, each day is still busy, still messy, still imperfect. But it’s ours.
I wake up to the sound of giggies. I fall asleep to the weight of love around me.
And every time I hold Solène, I know…
This is what healing looks like.
This is what home feels like.
This is what forever means.
