David held our daughter against his chest and whispered her name: Lily.
Margaret reached out, hesitant. “May I?”
I nodded.
Margaret cradled Lily with surprising gentleness. For a moment, she looked less like the woman who once measured worth with labels and more like a grandmother simply holding a new life.
“She’s beautiful,” Margaret whispered.
My mother stood beside her, quiet, watching. Elena Richie had sent a gift from Milan: a tiny blanket stitched with a small house motif and a note that read, Room is love.
When Margaret noticed the blanket, her eyes lingered on it.
Then she looked at me. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and her voice carried more weight than the words alone.
“For what?” I asked.
“For letting me learn,” she said. “Even when I made it hard.”
I nodded slowly. “Keep learning,” I said.
Margaret’s lips trembled into a small smile. “I intend to.”
Part 8
Life didn’t become perfect after that. It became real.