Isabella had rehearsed the words a hundred times.
In the mirror.
In her head.
In the quiet spaces between heartbeats.
Still—when the moment came, they scattered like birds.
They were alone on the balcony, the evening breeze gentle, the city humming below. Xavier leaned against the railing, sleeves rolled up, relaxed in a way she had learned to treasure. Peace looked good on him.
She held the small envelope behind her back.
"Xavier," she said softly.
He turned immediately. He always did when she used that tone.
"Yes?"
She swallowed. Her fingers trembled, just a little.
"There's something I need to tell you."
Concern flickered across his face—not fear, but care. "Okay. I'm listening."
She stepped closer, placed the envelope in his hands.
"What's this?"
"Open it."
He did.
The paper slid out slowly.
Two lines.
For a second, the world froze.
Xavier stared.
Once.
Twice.
Then his breath caught so sharply it startled her.
He looked up—eyes wide, shining, disbelieving.
"Isabella…" His voice broke. "Is this—?"
She nodded, tears already gathering. "I'm pregnant."
Silence fell.
Not the heavy kind.
The sacred kind.
Xavier laughed—once, breathless—then covered his mouth as emotion surged too fast to contain.
"You— we—" He dropped the paper, pulled her into his arms, holding her like she might float away. "We're having a child."
She laughed through tears. "Yes."
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, shaking—not from fear, but from joy so overwhelming it hurt.
"I'm going to be a father," he whispered.
And then—without hesitation, without doubt—he said the words that surprised even her.
"I'm resigning."
She pulled back. "What?"
"I'm done," he said gently but firmly. "I've given enough to war. I won't miss first steps. Or sleepless nights. Or you."
Her heart swelled.
"You're sure?" she asked, searching his face.
He smiled—the kind of smile that held certainty. "I choose this. I choose us."
She kissed him, slow and full of gratitude.
---
The months passed quietly.
Softly.
Isabella's belly grew. Xavier learned patience in a new way—attending appointments, cooking meals, listening at night when worry crept in uninvited. He held her when she tired. He laughed when she cried over nothing and everything.
They were learning again.
Together.
---
The christening came on a bright, gentle morning.
No grand affair.
Just family.
Just love.
The baby slept peacefully in Isabella's arms, wrapped in white. Lucia stood close, adjusting the blanket, whispering prayers under her breath.
Marcello watched from his seat, eyes already wet.
When the priest spoke the child's name, Marcello's shoulders shook.
Lucia reached for his hand, steadying him.
"We lived long enough to see this," she whispered.
He nodded, unable to speak.
Tears fell freely—not from pain, but from gratitude so deep it trembled.
Xavier stood beside Isabella, hand resting protectively at her back.
He had worn a uniform once.
Today, he wore peace.
And as sunlight streamed through the chapel windows, touching four generations bound by survival and love, one truth stood clear and unbreakable:
They had not just endured life.
They had built it.