Three months. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. That's how long Dante had been in jail. That's how long I had been doing this alone. My morning routine had become a ritual of survival. I'd wake up in our vast, empty bed, my hand immediately going to the gentle curve of my belly, a constant, living reminder of what we were fighting for. The nausea had mostly subsided, replaced by the quiet miracle of a life growing within me.
The weekly visits were the anchor of my existence. Every Tuesday and Saturday, Marco would drive me to the county jail. I knew the guards by name now. I recognized the other regulars in the waiting room—the tired-eyed woman with two young kids, the elderly mother who came every single week. We'd nod to each other, a silent acknowledgment of our shared reality, a sad sisterhood bound by concrete walls and plexiglass.
"He still inside?" the woman with the kids asked me one Tuesday.
"Yes," I said. "You?"
She sighed, a sound of bone-deep weariness. "Going on two years now." Her words were a cold splash of reality. This could be my life for a very, very long time.
When Dante was brought out, my heart did its familiar flip-flop of joy and pain. He looked better than he had in the first few weeks, more settled. He'd been working out, the muscles in his arms and chest straining against the fabric of his orange jumpsuit. A dark, scruffy beard covered his jaw; they wouldn't let him have a proper razor.
"Hi, beautiful," he said, his voice a low rumble over the tinny phone receiver. His eyes went straight to my stomach. "You're showing."
I looked down at the small, definite bump. "Yeah. Can't hide it anymore."
His hand came up to the glass, hovering over the spot where our baby was. The inches of separation between his hand and my belly felt like a mile-wide chasm. It killed us both, every single time.
"I had the twelve-week checkup," I told him, forcing a bright tone. "Everything's perfect. Strong heartbeat, growing right on schedule."
"Did they… can they tell the gender yet?" he asked, his voice filled with a hopeful eagerness.
"Not yet. Maybe at the twenty-week appointment." I hesitated. "Do you want to know then?"
"Do you?"
"I want you to be there when we find out," I said, my voice cracking. "But I don't know if I can wait that long."
"Then find out," he said gently. "Tell me here. I'll imagine I was there with you."
"It's not the same," I whispered, tears welling in my eyes.
"I know," he said, his own eyes glistening. "But it's what we have."
His trial was set for January, five more months away. "I'll be eight months pregnant," I told him, the reality of it a heavy weight.
"I know. I'm sorry, Ella."
"Stop apologizing," I said, my voice firm. "This isn't your fault."
"It is," he insisted. "All of it. My choices, my past. I wish you would just leave, you and the baby. You deserve better than this."
"We deserve you," I countered, my voice fierce. "That's what we want. I'm not leaving you, Dante. Ever."
The guard's call of "Two minutes" always came too soon. "I love you," I said, my voice thick with unshed tears. "Stay safe."
"I love you," he replied, his eyes burning into mine. "Both of you. Take care of my baby."
"*Our* baby," I corrected.
A small, sad smile touched his lips. "Our baby."
The next few weeks passed in a blur of hospital volunteering and doctor's appointments. The kids in the pediatric ward were fascinated by my growing belly. "Miss Ella, you're getting fat!" Tommy announced one day with the brutal honesty of a seven-year-old. I laughed, a real, genuine laugh. "I'm having a baby, sweetie." His eyes went wide with wonder, and we spent the rest of the afternoon debating whether it was a boy or a girl. He was convinced it was twins.
At my twenty-week appointment, Isabella came with me for support. I watched, mesmerized, as the grainy, black-and-white image of our baby appeared on the screen—a tiny, perfect human, waving its little arms. Tears streamed down my face. "That's our baby," I whispered.
"Do you want to know the gender?" the technician asked. I had her write it down and seal it in an envelope. I wanted to share this moment with Dante, as much as we could.
At our next visit, his face was a mask of pure wonder as I pressed the ultrasound photos against the glass. "That's our baby," he breathed, his voice filled with awe.
I held up the sealed envelope. "The gender is in here. Want to find out together?"
"Yes," he said, his eyes shining. "Absolutely."
I tore open the envelope, my hands shaking. I read the single word on the paper and a huge smile broke across my face.
"Well?" he demanded, his voice tight with suspense. "Don't leave me in suspense!"
"It's a girl," I said, my voice choked with happy tears. "We're having a daughter."
His face crumpled, a mixture of overwhelming joy and profound sorrow. "A girl," he whispered. "We're having a daughter." We were both crying now, two souls connected by love and separated by a cruel pane of glass.
"I've been thinking of a name," I said. "Sophia. After your mother."
His breath caught. "Really?"
"She should know her grandmother," I said. "Even if it's just in name."
"Sophia Russo," he said, testing the name on his tongue. "It's perfect." Then his joy dissolved into heartbreak. His shoulders began to shake. "I'm going to miss everything," he choked out. "I won't be there when she's born. I won't get to hold her."
"You don't know that," I tried to reassure him, but he shook his head.
"Ella, I'm going to be convicted," he said, his voice flat with a terrible certainty. It was the first time he had admitted it out loud. "Antonio's testimony is too strong. Chen is already preparing for sentencing, not acquittal. I need you to accept that."
"No," I said, my own voice fierce. "I refuse to accept that. We fight until the very end."
"I am fighting," he said, his voice filled with a weary resignation. "But I'm also a realist. And if I'm convicted, I need to know that you and Sophia will be okay." He looked at me, his eyes pleading. "I want you to divorce me."
"What?" The word was a strangled gasp. "No! Absolutely not."
"Ella, listen to me. You're young. You shouldn't waste your life waiting for a man who might be in prison for twenty or thirty years. Sophia deserves a father who is present."
"She has a father! You!"
"Not if I'm locked up!"
"I don't care!" I insisted, my voice rising. "I am not divorcing you. We will visit you every single week for thirty years if we have to. I am not leaving you."
"You're impossible," he said, but there was a flicker of love and admiration in his eyes.
"You married me," I shot back. "You knew what you were getting into."
The guard called time. "We're naming her Sophia," I said, my hand pressed against the glass. "Your mother would be so proud."
"I love you, Ella," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "More than anything."
"I love you too. We'll see you on Saturday."
The weeks bled into one another. My belly grew, a constant, reassuring presence. The nursery was painted in soft shades of cream and pink. I sent Dante photos of the crib and the tiny dresses I had bought. He hung them in his cell, creating a small shrine to the daughter he had never met.
At twenty-four weeks, I was lying in bed when I felt it—a tiny, fluttering kick from within. "Sophia?" I whispered, my hand flying to my stomach. Another kick, stronger this time. I laughed and cried at the same time, a wave of love so powerful it took my breath away. I called Isabella, my voice giddy. "She's kicking!"
But the joy was immediately followed by a sharp pang of sorrow. Dante should have been here to feel this. It wasn't fair.
At my next visit, I told him about it. "She's kicking all the time now. She's strong, Dante. She takes after you."
The look on his face was a mixture of pure joy and unbearable pain. "I wish I could feel it," he whispered, his hand pressed against the glass. "I hope she takes after you. Brave and kind."
"She'll be both of us," I said. "Perfect and so, so loved."
"So loved," he agreed, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "I promise, Sophia. Daddy is fighting to get home to you."
Three months had become a lifetime and a heartbeat. I was twenty-four weeks pregnant, my daughter a constant, kicking reminder that life, stubborn and beautiful, goes on. Dante sat in a cell, counting the days until his trial, until freedom, until he could hold us. January loomed, a month of judgment and birth. We would tell our daughter stories someday, about how her father fought for her before she was even born, about how her mother grew strong while carrying her, about how love could survive bars and glass and the crushing weight of the law. But first, we had to survive the trial.