Page 102 of Priestly Sins
I’ve effectively been relegated to the third wheel in this conversation but it’s still one of the best moments of my life, the location notwithstanding. I step back into the conversation.
“Beautiful girl, sit right here for me?” I move her to a chair near where I’d sat. She does, expectant.
I take one knee.
“I know you said yes, but we should do this right. Sirona, will you do me the honor of being my wife?” I thumb open the lid on a two-carat ruby with two rows of sparkling diamonds surrounding it, and meet her eyes.
Her mouth pops open and her eyes bug. Guess I did okay.
I take her right hand and slide the ring below her knuckle and raise my eyebrows. I want to hear yes again, just for my own affirmation. She nods and I push it home. Still on my knee, I swivel to Clara and hold out another box. It’s a smaller ring, though one she can grow into and keep forever.
“Can I be your daddy?”
I almost miss the sob behind me with the shrill “Yes!” that pours from Clara’s lips when her hand is thrust out into my face. I laugh. That’s my girl!
I slide a ring on her little finger and show her how it has a piece underneath it to make it fit for now. She flings her hand down as if I need to kiss the top of it over and over and over and over again.
I lean into Sirona’s ear and whisper, “Name the time and place and we’ll make it official.” I feel her nod and I kiss her amidst humming lights, sanitized smells, and Clara’s flinging hand.
Epilogue
If you would have told me at fifteen or twenty-five or thirty-five that my life at forty-five would be this good, I’d have told you that you had a rich fantasy life and that it was cruel for including me in it.
But I’d have been so very wrong.
Today, on my forty-fifth birthday, I wake in our Knockferry home. I smell blueberry pancakes and hot chocolate that have become my birthday breakfast tradition. I also hear the arguing of my girls. All of my girls.
My Sirona, who loves me better than I deserve, has for almost a decade. She’s the yin to my yang, the sun to my moon, the joy in my life.
She married me on July Fourth—less than three months after she saved our family from Hal Staunchley, less than a year after I saved our family from Enzo Calabrese—on the bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Independence Day. Killian officiated after getting ordained online and Clara stood as our witness. We celebrate every year with fireworks and hamburgers and blueberry and raspberry tarts.
My Clara Bell, daughter number one, the owner of my heart, the little one who made me a daddy without even having to try. She chose me and that was that. Legally, we made it official but, in my heart, there was no need. I would lay down in front of a train for her. She knows this. Even at almost fifteen and full of hormones when no parent can be cool or do anything right, she’s still my girl. It annoys the piss out of her mom, but I don’t care even a little bit.
Our daughter, Elizabeth, now nine was given the name that means “Gift from God” and I see that as wholly true. She is her mom’s mini-me, down to her culinary gifts, which her mother and I foster—her mother by countless hours in the kitchen discussing the science and art of baking and trips to Paris to learn from the masters. I donate my time and effort by eating her creations, the delicious and the avant garde (read, not so delicious).
Twin daughters, Annalisa and Amelia, followed not long after Elizabeth and convinced me that the surgery I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d need, much less have, was a high priority. They are amazing and as different as night and day. How their mother and I came together and created their DNA will escape me all the days of my life. They are wonderful and creative and brilliant.
With five estrogen-carriers in my life, I’ve doubled down on the dogs. Hagrid is still kicking, although, he is a little slower in his old age. We added Satchmo, a mutt with some unmistakable wolfhound in him, and he keeps me company on my runs because of Elizabeth’s skills, and avoiding the five bouts of estrogen-mania that are likely to erupt at any point in our home.
Rolling out of bed, I hit the bathroom and look at the crow’s feet around my eyes. They’re deeper than they used to be. The gray at my temples has set in as well. I celebrate them both. The gray because I survived what amounted to a suicide mission of my own choosing—one of vengeance and malice. My wrinkles because they’re proof that I smile and laugh.
A lot.
I have more joy and laughter in my life than I ever could have dreamed. I have a beautiful life. And all because one little girl called me silly and her mom smiled at me when she did.