“Why?”
“She said I couldn’t hold a grocery bag without dropping something.”
Her mother laughed softly.
“Could I hold one?”
I hesitated.
She lowered her gaze.
“I understand.”
“These girls can’t spend their lives waiting for you to be ready.”
“I know.”
“I won’t tell them you’ll come if you might disappear.”
She nodded.
“I’ll earn it. If you’ll let me.”
I handed her the smaller baby.
She held her close.
“Hello, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I’m your grandma.”
Tiny fingers caught her collar.
She smiled through tears.
Nothing was completely repaired that afternoon.
Three months of silence couldn’t disappear because she’d cried.
But she returned the next morning.
And the following day.
She washed bottles, learned the girls’ different cries, and watched them while I slept.
One afternoon, our smaller daughter curled her fingers around Grandma’s thumb during a feeding.
