The morning after the festival dawned calm, as if the ranch itself was catching its breath after so much celebration. I woke up with the sun streaming through the window and the smell of coffee coming from the kitchen, but it wasn't Marco preparing it—it was my father.
I came down the stairs carefully, balancing my huge belly, and stopped at the kitchen door to watch the scene. My father, his back to me, stirred a pot on the stove with the same concentration he used to solve problems at work. He had always been like that: focused, quiet, present in his own way.
"I knew you were there," he said without turning around.
"I knew you knew."
He laughed softly and turned around, a cup of coffee in his hand.
"Here. Your mother said pregnant women need coffee. I don't understand these things."
