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The older woman nods. I will always refer to the men I’ve sworn my life to as my children’s fathers. But she knows, and I know, and apparently,everyoneknows that this child, at least, shares Remi’s DNA. She’s obviously considering her next words with care.
I offer her an olive branch.
Justin’s mother has taken to the idea of impending grandmotherhood with an enthusiasm that’s a smidgen scary, to be honest. But Mrs. Lancaster is here, and that’s got to count for something.
“I don’t have my phone on me at the moment, but if you’d like, I’d be happy to send you pictures of the 3D ultrasound. We had a second one performed just two weeks ago.”
Her head whips up.
“Why? Did they suspect something was wrong?”
I shake my head with a smile.
“No. Justin and Remi heard the old wives' tale that a child with a lot of hair could cause heartburn and got into an argument over its validity. They scheduled an ultrasound in an attempt to settle the fight once and for all. Jokes on them. You can’t see hair on a 3D ultrasound.” My shoulders lift, then fall back carelessly. “I wanted to see the baby again, so I went along with it.”
“You’ve had heartburn then?” she asks, sounding more invested in the conversation than she has since she walked through our door.
“Only at night. I’ve taken to sleeping with Tums under my pillow. It’s horrendous. I’ve noticed it's not as bad if I eat a snack right before bed. Something about food blocking the rising stomach acid, but if I gain any more weight, I’m going to look like a penguin, so I try to avoid that when possible.”
Silence falls again, but this time I let it settle like a warm blanket.
If we were going to fight, we’d have started already.
No, she’s working up her courage.
I start on a muffin, peeling back the paper wrapper and pulling off a chunk of the top. It took me ages of practice to get the brown sugar crumble on the top to come out with the right consistency, and half of these don’t even have it because I ate the mixture while I was cooking.
Mrs. Lancaster pushes her untouched mug of tea into the middle of the table.
“I want to be a part of my grandchild's life.”
I suspected something like this was coming.
“That’s not up to me.”
She begins to dispute the claim, and I lift my hand to stop her.
“It’s not,” I say firmly. “I—I forgive you for what you did and said to me.” I do. It’s not in my nature to hold things against people. She was in the wrong, and the things she said hurt in a way few words ever have. But she thought she was doing what was best for her child. I can’t say I wouldn’t do the same, even if what she thought was right was wrong.
Besides, they had a point, didn’t they? It’s not like we weren’t expecting the backlash from coming out of the closet. We knew the sort of shit storm we were brewing. But the Lancasters knew it too, and they were simply trying to avoid that for themselves as well as their son.
Speaking of which.
“Were you aware I’ve lost my job?” I ask, forcing her to acknowledge me.
Mrs. Lancaster meets my eye, and the woman has the grace to look—not ashamed. But her face holds a vulnerability I’ve yet to see on her.
“I am, yes. I want to assure you I had no part in that nasty business. Remi’s father assures me that he didn’t either.” I believe her. I can’t see her coming here and then lying about it. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way that I treated you, before.”
I come back to the issue at hand.
“It’s not my forgiveness you need. You need to speak to Remington. As it stands…”
I shrug again.
“You hurt him. Deeply. It wasn’t just your treatment about his announcement of his bi-sexuality.” Brutal honesty has always worked best between me and the boys. “I think we can agree you weren’t the most affectionate mother. Appearances mattered more to you than your child’s happiness and comfort. Our child will not be raised like that. Honestly, it’ll probably be disgustingly spoiled, but thems the breaks.”
I make sure to meet her eye so she can see my sincerity.
