“Neva,” Grace asked. “I want to ask you something. Why didn’t you tell me? About the pregnancy and the father? I understand why you wouldn’t tell Patrick, or people at the hospital. But why not me? You know I wouldn’t have judged you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do know that.”
“Then … why? You don’t have to answer—”
“No. It’s okay.” I closed my eyes and exhaled. “It might sound strange, but … I felt like if I talked about it, it wouldn’t be mine anymore. I’d barely got my head around it myself, and I knew if I shared it, you’d want to be involved. But this wasn’t something I wanted to share. I thought that if I didn’t keep it close, I’d lose it. Not the baby but … my way. And I wasn’t willing to do that. Not with my baby.”
I opened my eyes, steeling myself for the look of hurt on Grace’s face. But it wasn’t hurt I found. It was something resembling … pride.
“Does that make sense?” I asked.
She cupped her hand over mine. “Nothing has ever made more sense. Protecting your baby, listening to your instincts—that’s what being a mother is all about. Sounds to me like you’re going to be a good one.”
“Mom, don’t make me cry again.”
It was the first time in years that I had called her Mom. It felt surprisingly right.
Suddenly I remembered that I hadn’t told her the full story. “But, Mom, the baby was full term. Which means Sean isn’t the father. The father is a guy I went on one date with, a month before anything happened with Sean. Not married. An accountant. An Italian guy who wears sensible shoes. A guy who now has a serious girlfriend.”
I waited for Mom to scream, pursue me for more information, or do something outrageous. But she didn’t. She just waited.
“So I need to tell him about her,” I said.
“You mean now?”
I nodded. “It’s already far too late.”
“Okay.” Grace stood. I couldn’t believe this restrained, accepting woman was my mother. “Do you have his number?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll get your phone.” She crossed the room to retrieve my phone from my purse, then brought it back to me. She took a few steps toward the door, then turned back. “You know … children are accepting little people. Much more than adults. Some have two mommies or two daddies. They have step and half and adopted siblings. They don’t question it. The biological parents are important, of course. But the more people to love a child, the better, I say.” She held my gaze. “He hasn’t left your side, you know. Patrick, I mean. He wanted to be here when you woke up.”
It took me a moment to process what she was saying. By the time I did, she had already left the room.