“Easy there, honey,” the blonde nurse cautions me. “You’re fresh out of surgery. You need to go slow.”
I nod impatiently, but I lift my hands up and out, waiting for my baby to be placed in my arms.
The second nurse walks forward and puts the little blue bundle in my arms.
I see a flash of dark hair—a mess of it, really—and then I see his eyes.
“Hello, little bird,” I murmur.
I stare down at my son, unblinking. He’s gorgeous. More beautiful than my imagination could have ever concocted.
And he looks like Artem.
The resemblance is indisputably obvious. He has Artem’s coloring, lighter than mine. He has Artem’s square jaw, his angular nose, his straight and direct gaze.
The only thing that I recognize that has come from me, are the eyes.
My son has large hazel eyes, framed by dark e
