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"Any sickness this morning, amore mio?" Domenico questions as I stand in front of the mirror, hand resting over my round belly that hides under a dark blue dress.
I shake my head, "She's active though. Like she knows what's happening today." I glance down at the ring on my finger and, in the moment of darkness, muster a small smile.
Martina died two days ago, surrounded by family, love, and a beautifully decorated room that held pictures of her childhood, her sons, her life. She looked angelic, glowing even moments after her last breath. Our baby girl kicked then too — all other times, she'd been less active.
The rings happened three months ago when she insisted she be alive to see the day Domenico and I become husband and wife, so we did it when she could still walk her son down the aisle.
She'd even left a sheet of paper that held a list of suggested names for our daughter.
She didn't want her funeral to be sad — she planned it. Hence the colorful attire and lilies scattered around the house to embrace her presence. She went into extensive planning — from picking all of our outfits to calling the caterers in advance.
She was a joyous woman, an amazing mother-in-law, and I know she would've been an amazing grandmother.
But now, she's being laid to rest on the family plot at the home in Italy, buried beside the boys' father.
I turn to my husband and approach him as he stares out of the window at where florists continue to decorate.
"Are you okay?" I ask, taking note of the tears he tries to hide away. I rest a hand on his arm, caressing it gently. "Baby... you know she wouldn't want anyone to cry." I sniffle, feeling it start, "She made sure of that during the 'Day of Crying' she planned out."
Domenico chuckles at my aversion but he shakes his head, "She loved you, you know?"
"Well I would hope so — she made you get married to me." I joke, trying to lift his spirits, "Not that I'm too mad about it."
He turns to me and smiles, "I love you, Farrah Santino. Every piece of joy you've brought me. Every piece of love and acceptance you've shown me. Thank you for loving me."
"Thank you for allowing me to." I press a sweet kiss to his lips, feeling as baby girl kicks against our stomachs, "Ouch."
He kisses me again before falling to his knees in front of me. I can't count the amount of times he's done this while I've been pregnant, and no, it wasn't to talk to her.
He kisses my stomach, "Bambina, I hope you know mommy and daddy love you very much and we'll always support any and everything you choose to do, but we might not be around to do that if you roundhouse kick us like this every time we kiss. We love each other, that's what we do."
