Maternal Musings

[POV SWITCH]

You never think you'll love someone before they speak your name, before even knowing who they are.

But from the moment Richard was placed in my arms, I knew.

Love doesn't always need words.

He came into the world screaming, red-faced, furious — like he'd been born fighting.

I was more than exhausted, but his voice made me alert and made me feel like a mother.

Now, nearly a year later, I still listen for that sound: his breath rising and falling softly against my shoulder. 

Sometimes, I wake even before the light comes through the curtains just to watch the rise and fall of his chest. It feels like watching proof that love can breathe.

I usually wake up in the early hours just to check on him. Not because I worry, of course I do, but because part of me still can't believe he's real.

Richard.

The little bundle of sweetness. 

Sometimes, I catch him staring at the light through the curtain, thoughtful in a way that doesn't belong to babies. He watches the world carefully, always thoughtful before doing anything. 

Last week, he reached for the shadow of my hand before he reached for the toy. As if he wanted to be sure I was still there.

There are moments when I look at him and feel an ache I can't quite name. Something deep, buried in me. 

Maybe it's how he tilts his head when he hears Enzo come home. Or how he curls his fingers around mine, even in sleep.

Before Richard, my world felt small. 

Routines, rationing, quiet days, folding laundry, and wondering if this was it. I smiled when I was meant to and minded the house the way I was taught. But inside, I felt like wallpaper, present but fading.

Now I find myself humming again—something I haven't done since I was a little girl.

When folding his little clothes, I hummed without meaning to. I caught myself once halfway through a lullaby I hadn't sung since I was a child.

Now there's a new rhythm: the warm press of him against my chest, the way his leg kicks when he hears his father laugh, the babbling that bubbles up between us. 

He changed me for the better.

Enzo calls him "piccolo uomo." Part of the Italian I have come to know over this last year. Our little man, a very appropriate description, is so full of being already at such a young age.

His Nonna, Isabella, always says he's got "una luce negli occhi"—a light in his eyes. She means it like he's special, touched somehow. Her voice softens when she speaks to him, even though she's always rushing. 

Leonardo, his Nonno, is quieter, but when he holds Richard, it's like the war leaves his body for just a moment. He calls him "Piccolino," and that's enough.

My parents visit nearly every day. They say it's to check on me, but I know better. They come for him. Richard brings something into the room that none of us can name, but all of us need.

He may not remember these days, but I will — every breath, every babble, every blink. I'll remember the light he brought, we didn't know we needed.

[POV SWITCH]

He has John's brow—that's the first thing I said. And Mary's nose. But the eyes? I couldn't place them. Not at first.

They constantly scanned, trying to soak up every detail of his surroundings.

Richard is something different.

He's made this house feel lighter—even when the laundry's stacked and the coal bin's running low, even when the wireless rattles on about Germany or that man Mosley or the next war that hasn't quite started but already sits on our doorstep.

When he laughs, the fear goes quiet for a while. When he grabs at my braid or claps at his reflection, we forget the headlines. We forget the cracks in the ceiling and the shoes we can't quite afford to replace.

He brought us all closer, too. Me and John used to argue more than breathe. But now we take turns holding him like a shared prayer.

Mary, my Mary… she grew up too quiet, too quickly. The war did that. Took the sound from children before they could sing. She was a shadow for so long, watching, not speaking. But now she sings. Soft little songs with no tune and all the love in the world.

I caught her one afternoon dancing in the kitchen, Richard on her hip, flour in her hair. She looked up at me and laughed like she'd never forgotten how.

She used to sing and hum through the silence that settled over us and everyone after the war. It never failed to get a small, relaxed smile from me when she wasn't looking. I know John missed it, too.

And Enzo. Well. We used to call him 'the Italian lad down the road.' Now he's family. My son-in-law. A father. He works hard, and he watches Richard as if the world starts and ends with him. I see the love in that, even when he doesn't speak it out loud.

His mother, Isabella, has a voice like a bell when she calls for Richard. It's sharp when she's scolding and soft when she sings. 

And Leonardo... he reminds me of my John. They're quiet men, but you can feel what they don't say. Every time Leonardo picks Richard up, he looks surprised. Like he didn't think joy like that was meant for him.

Richard is the centre of it all. A chubby little sun. And we orbit him gladly.

I hold him and wonder what he'll remember. Maybe none of this. But I'll remember the way he curls into me, the sound of his breathing, and the way he makes this family feel whole.

[POV SWITCH]

He's sharper than most, that boy.

You can see it in his eyes. Not just looking—seeing. Like he's sizing the world up already, making sense of it faster than he should.

When I hold him, he grabs at my shirt and doesn't let go. His grip's stronger than it ought to be. He locks on like he knows I need the contact more than he does.

Mary was always quiet. Good girl. Never caused trouble. But now? She sings to him. They are not real songs—just sounds, but they come from somewhere deeper. Dorothy pretends not to notice, but I see how her eyes soften when she hears it.

And her, my Dorothy—she used to tell me off for making silly faces at babies. Now she does it herself, contorting like a pantomime fool just to hear him giggle. I'd tease her if I weren't so fond of the sound.

Enzo's alright. I had my doubts. Still do, sometimes. But he works. He's respectful. He loves that boy. Calls me "Signore" now and then, usually with a smirk, but it's polite. We don't have to say much. We meet in the middle—over Richard's cot, over a shared look that says we'll protect him, no matter what.

I've seen how Isabella watches him. Fierce, that one. She reminds me of the nurses in the trenches—no-nonsense, but their hands always knew where the pain was. 

Leonardo's got that far-off look — like he's still hearing shells in his sleep. I know that stare. I wore it once, too. We don't say much to each other, but we nod. That's enough. We're both just old soldiers holding onto a new reason to keep going.

And that reason is soft-cheeked, curious and grabs my thumb like it's the most important thing in the world.

That's what the boy's done, hasn't he?

Built bridges. Just by being.

He won't remember any of this. But we will.

Every time, he claps his hands, wails at the cold, and grabs our fingers like they're lifelines.

He's made us a family again.

Not just in name. In truth.