“This child,” she said softly, pulling back to look at me, “will have the best of all worlds. Thompson determination… Jensen creativity… and parents who know the value of authenticity.”
David’s mouth fell open. He stared at his mother like he’d just watched her speak a foreign language.
Afterward, in the car, he said quietly, “Did my mother just compliment authenticity?”
I laughed through my tears. “She did.”
As my pregnancy progressed, Margaret’s efforts continued, uneven but real.
She attended one of my school’s family nights and sat on a tiny plastic chair while my students showed her their drawings. She looked slightly horrified by the chair, then softened when a five-year-old proudly handed her a picture of a dinosaur wearing a tutu.
“That’s… delightful,” Margaret said, and she sounded like she meant it.
She asked me questions about my classroom. About the kids. About what I loved about teaching.
I watched her practice curiosity like a skill she was learning late in life.
Not everyone was thrilled by her changes.
Beatrice, in particular, seemed offended that Margaret’s attention had shifted away from society games and toward something messy and real.