By late second trimester, talking to Emma had become a nightly ritual.
Every evening after dinner, Damien would settle beside Aria on the couch, place his hand on her twenty-four-week bump, and tell their daughter about his day.
"Hey, Emma Rose," he'd begin, his voice soft and intimate. "It's Dad. Want to hear about the meeting I had today? It was boring, but I'll make it sound interesting..."
And he'd talk. About work, about the weather, and about the plans he had for their future. He'd tell her about the nursery they'd prepared, the people who were waiting to meet her, and the world she'd soon enter.
Emma always responded. As soon as Damien's hand touched Aria's belly, she'd start moving with kicks and rolls and what felt like full somersaults.
"She knows your voice," Aria said one
