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“Really?”
Nodding, I clarify, “She knows the baby is mine and Mickey’s. That we fucked up, and that we’re going to win you back.”
Gail’s breath hitches and her mouth opens, but before she can say anything, Nana comes back.
“Here we are. Oatmeal cookies, fresh from the oven.” She sets down a tray laden with baked goods and sandwiches, sitting herself down with a satisfied huff.
We spend hours talking and laughing. Nana tells stories of my childhood antics—tales I’d hoped were buried deep. Gail hangs on every word, her laughter mingling with Nana’s, creating a symphony that fills the room with warmth.
“Did Soren ever tell you about the time he almost burned down my old house?” Nana asks, mischief dancing in her eyes.
“Uh, no,” Gail grins at me, “but I’m dying to know now.”
“Traitor,” I mutter under my breath, but the teasing edge doesn’t quite mask the sense of contentment that’s creeping into my bones.
As the sun dips lower, casting golden hues across the room, I watch these two important women in my life interact, and it’s surreal—like watching separate worlds collide and merge into something new, something better.
“Thank you, Nana,” Gail says, her tone laced with genuine gratitude, “for everything.”
“Darling girl, you are family now. And family takes care of each other,” Nana replies, reaching over to squeeze Gail’s hand.
When Gail looks slightly uncomfortable with that declaration, I remind her, “She knows everything.”
Nana nods solemnly. “I do, and it’s not because I’m all-knowing. Soren and Mickey have told me everything, and I have to say you’re a saint for putting up with the two of them for as long as you did.”
The day we returned from Jersey, Mickey and I came here to visit Nana, and, well, tell her about Gail. She deserves to know about her great-grandchild, and why she might not be able to see her as often as she’d like, unless Gail forgives us. In true Nana fashion, she called us on our bullshit. She’s the one who told me I needed to stop pushing people away, and encouraged me to bring Gail to visit her.
Gail cocks an eyebrow, smiling slyly at me before turning her attention back on Nana. “So you know he messed up?” she asks.
Nana nods again. “I do, darling Gail. And while I won’t make excuses for him, I dare say he wasn’t the only one who had something to repair.”
“That’s fair,” Gail mutters.
When it’s finally time to leave, I stand with a reluctance that feels foreign on my tongue. We exchange goodbyes, and Nana pulls Gail into another tight hug, whispering something in her ear that has Gail nodding fiercely. Then Nana leaves the room without a word.
She returns after only a few minutes, clutching something in her wrinkled hands. “Before you go,” she starts, her voice both brittle and warm like late fall leaves, “I have something for Gail.”
“Me?” Gail’s blue eyes widen, her hand instinctively cradling the gentle swell of her belly.
Nana nods, unfolding a blanket from her grasp. It’s delicate, the edges laced with faint hints of yellowing age, but it’s in remarkable condition. The fabric is soft, worn smooth by the touch of generations, and in the corner, embroidered with thread that’s held its color against time, is the name “Taylor”.
“Every child born into our family since my great-grandmother has been swaddled in this.” Nana extends it toward Gail, who takes it with hands that tremble ever so slightly. “Now it’s your turn to use it.”
“But the baby isn’t a Taylor by blood,” Gail murmurs, tracing the stitching with a fingertip. I can see the uncertainty in her gaze, the fear of overstepping invisible lines.
“Blood doesn’t make a family, love does,” Nana says firmly, her green eyes locking onto mine. “And Soren here,” she pats my arm, “he’s just as much this baby’s dad as Mickey is.”
“Thank you, Nana. This means more than you know,” Gail replies, her voice thick with emotion.
We say our goodbyes again and get into the waiting elevator, where I pull Gail close, pressing a kiss to her temple, feeling the softness of the heirloom blanket between us. “Ready to grab some dinner?” I ask, still not quite used to the vulnerability that comes with caring this much.
Gail nods, her smile like a promise of something new and terrifying and wonderful—all at once.
We head out to O’Jackie’s, the Irish pub where Mickey and I first noticed her. The place is dimly lit, the walls lined with memorabilia.
“Remember when we first met?” I ask Gail, taking a sip of the dark beer that’s become all too familiar.
“Hard to forget,” she laughs, the sound mingling with the clink of glasses and the low hum of conversations around us.
