She nodded.
"I'll earn it. If you'll let me."
I handed her the smaller twin.
She held the baby close.
"Hello, sweetheart," she whispered. "I'm your grandma."
The baby grabbed her collar.
Mary's mother smiled through tears.
We didn't fix everything that day.
I didn't forgive three months of silence because she'd cried in my kitchen.
But she came back the next morning.
And the next.
She washed bottles.
Learned their different cries.
Held them while I slept.
One afternoon, she was feeding the smaller twin when the baby curled her fingers around Grandma's thumb.
She froze.
"Mary used to do that," she whispered.
Her eyes filled.
For a moment, she looked toward the door.
I recognized that look.
I'd seen it when she first arrived.
The urge to get away before remembering hurt too much.
Then the baby made a small impatient noise.
Her grandmother looked down.
"I'm here," she whispered.
She wiped her face with her free hand.
