Eli watched us from across the room, his expression soft and a little misty.
I touched Noah’s shoulder and felt something shift inside me, like the ache I’d carried was finally making room for something else.
We sat down and shared cupcakes that were far too sweet and talked about airplanes and school and favorite ice cream flavors.
And for the first time in two weeks, I didn’t feel like a grieving mother. I felt like something more.
I never had grandchildren. I never thought I’d be called family again.
I knew that Robert and I were falling apart at the seams and that it was only a matter of time before he moved out.
But now, every Christmas, there’s a crayon drawing taped to my fridge, always signed:
“To Grandma Margaret. Love, Noah.”
And somehow, I believed I was meant to be right here all along.
