The Photographer's Wife

"Lucy, sweetheart, I'm not pretending." He took one of her hands in his and gently kissed her knuckles. "Firstly, you are not fat; you are ripe with my child. But, all of those things are what make you more beautiful to me than you have ever been. I'm not pretending, it's just that I love you and I admire your courage more than I can possibly say. If I could bear the sleepless nights and the swollen feet for you, I would. If I could be the one to suffer when junior sits on your bladder, I would. If I could show you that you are still my beautiful Lucy then I would. If you could only see what I see." He kissed her softly. "I don't know how to make you see."

A hint of a smile appeared on her face as he kissed her again. She pulled away and sighed, "I'm sorry ... I'm just tired of not feeling like me."

"There's no need for you to be sorry, darling." He pushed her hair behind her ear and kissed the tip of her nose. "What can I do to make you feel better?"

"Nothing," she sighed again.

"Tell you what, why don't you go back to bed and I'll make you breakfast? Would that help?"

"As long as you put extra syrup on the porridge." She gave him a small smile.

He left her tucked up in bed and made his way to the kitchen to make her porridge, grabbing his camera off the bedside table on his way. He had an idea that he hoped might show her how he saw her.

While waiting for the porridge to cook he loaded the photos he had taken of Lucy onto his laptop. There was one shot he hoped had come out perfectly. He grinned as it appeared on the screen. It was just what he hoped for. A tiny bit of editing later and it was even better. He set it to print and went to finish the breakfast.

--

The smell of golden syrup roused her from her slumber. She opened her eyes to find him sitting on the bed holding a tray. There was fresh coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and, her favourite, a bowl of steaming porridge doused liberally with golden syrup. She could not help the grin that bloomed on her face.

He put the tray down next to the bed and helped her to sit up before placing it in front of her along with something wrapped in tissue paper.

She looked at him questioningly. "What's this?"

"Open it and see."

"It's not my birthday."

"Does it need to be for me to want to do something nice for my beautiful wife?"

The automatic self-deprecating response was on the tip of her tongue but he placed his finger over her lips before she could say it.

"Open it."

She gazed at the framed photo that emerged from within the tissue paper. "When ... how ... did you ..." Words failed her.

She was lying on her back with one arm flung away from her body and the other protecting her bump. Her golden hair was fanned out across the pillow and glinting in the sunlight that also illuminated her face and lit the shadows thus making her appear serene and rested. The entire picture was so perfectly beautiful that Lucy hardly recognised herself. What was it he had said earlier? "Ripe with my child." And somehow he had captured that. Not fat. Ripe.

He reached out gently wiped away the tear that rolled slowly down her face. "I didn't mean to make you cry, sweetheart."

"How do you do that?" She tore her eyes away from the photo and looked at him questioningly.

"Do what?"

"Make everything all right."

He grinned. "That's my job."

"Thank you." She kissed him as he leant over the breakfast tray.

"It's always my pleasure."

He started to kiss down her jaw towards her neck but she pulled away and picked up the spoon on the tray. He raised his eyebrows.

"You know I love you," she said with a smirk on her face, "But porridge with golden syrup always comes first."

He pulled back the covers and slid into bed next to her. "I can wait," he laughed, happy to see the frown gone from her face. "The best things come to those who wait," he said and gently smoothed his hand over her belly.