Chapter 6 - A Family in Public
At the next class, Adrian was corrected within five minutes. He lifted the practice infant from the changing table with one hand beneath its back but forgot to support its head properly. Helen gently adjusted his grip. I watched his shoulders tighten, the old reaction of a man accustomed to being the best-prepared person in any room. Then he repositioned his fingers and practiced again until the movement became natural.
We learned about safe sleep, car-seat installation, and the exhausting repetition of feeding and changing a newborn. No amount of money would allow either of us to skip those first bewildering weeks.
During a paired exercise, I caught Adrian looking at me with an expression I hadn't seen in years: not admiration for something I'd achieved, but curiosity about something I knew. "How do you remember all this?" he whispered. "I'm frightened enough to pay attention," I answered.
Afterward he helped carry my bag to the car and asked whether I wanted him to arrange a professional car-seat check. This time he asked before doing anything. I accepted, provided we both attended and learned the installation ourselves. We agreed on a date. It was our first plan that concerned only the baby's safety and not the arguments surrounding her arrival.
The improvement lasted until Thursday, when an entertainment website published a paragraph speculating that the Moretti marriage was in trouble and that I was expecting a child. There was no medical photograph, but the report named my company and my former social appearances.
Evelyn called before I could decide what to do. "A client wants to know if we're shutting down," she said. "Apparently having a baby and moving house are now considered a corporate restructuring."
I spent the morning reassuring our staff that Carter & Reed had a maternity-coverage plan and wasn't going anywhere. Evelyn handled the client who had confused gossip with business risk. That was the part of publicity Adrian never seemed to see: people attached to my work depended on decisions I made every day, and his fame could disrupt them without anyone in his office noticing.
Adrian called while I was finishing a budget review. His communications director had prepared a proposed statement referring to our baby as an anticipated addition to the Moretti legacy. He read the phrase aloud, then apologized before I could react.
"I rejected it," he said. "They thought it would stop speculation." I sat down. "It would have turned her into an inheritance announcement before she's even born." "I know. That's why it isn't going out."
I asked him to have his office remove our daughter's medical details, my company information, and any photographs of me from their scheduled family-related communications. He confirmed the request by email. The website eventually updated its paragraph to say neither of us had commented. We had not silenced the world, but we'd kept our private circumstances from being packaged by the people who worked for him.
Then Lucia called me directly. Her voice was smooth and careful. She said she'd heard rumors and was concerned that strangers knew things her own son had not told her. "Is there something you should be sharing with this family, Mara?" she asked. I felt the familiar pressure to be agreeable. "Adrian and I will decide together what to share about our daughter," I said. "You can speak with him about arranging a visit."
There was a long silence. "Our daughter," Lucia repeated, letting the words settle. "You're pregnant?" "Yes." I kept my answer simple. She began to ask why she hadn't been informed, but I ended the call gently, explaining that I was at work. When I hung up, I was shaking. It annoyed me that a woman who had never raised her voice at me could still make my skin feel too tight.
Adrian phoned an hour later. Lucia had already called him, angry that she'd learned from me before him. "I told her that was my failure," he said. "I promised to speak with her, then waited because I didn't want another difficult conversation." For once, he hadn't hidden behind an assistant, an urgent meeting, or my supposed preference for privacy. "She wants to meet you," he added. "You don't have to."
I thought about the baby who would someday ask who her grandmother was. I could protect her from manipulation without pretending family relationships were simple. I told Adrian I would meet Lucia in a public café, with him present, for no more than an hour. "I need you to understand something," I said. "If she begins talking about appearances or ownership, I won't stay to argue. I'll leave."
"Then we leave," he replied. I corrected him. "I decide whether I leave. You can decide what you do." He accepted the correction without embarrassment. It was becoming easier to say what I meant when I trusted he wouldn't turn every boundary into a challenge.
That evening, I sat in the nursery with paint swatches balanced on my knees. The room was small, with one window overlooking an alley and a patch of sky.
May you like
It was nothing like the elaborate suite Lucia had once suggested a future Moretti child might need. I chose a warm cream for the walls because morning light made it look like butter, and because I liked it. My daughter's room didn't need a family crest.
Adrian texted to ask whether Lucia could bring a gift. I said a gift was fine, but not a demand disguised as one. He answered that he would make that clear. I put my phone down, aware that the next conversation would test something different from our private agreements: whether Adrian could protect a boundary in front of the people who had taught him to disregard them.
