Grace
Two years later, they placed an ultrasound in my shaking hands. “You’re going to be a great-grandmother.” On a snowy afternoon, as flakes clung to hospital glass, they laid Grace Eleanor in my arms—Liam’s nose, Lila’s fingers, a heartbeat like applause. Liam draped the quilt over us both.
“Now,” he said through tears, “it’s perfect.”
What the Quilt Taught Us
That quilt was once mocked under chandeliers. Now it warms midnight feedings and Tuesday naps. Its stains are footnotes; its frays are testimonies. When Grace stirs, Lila lays her on Henry’s plaid, my satin wedding square, and the flannel that once wrapped Liam’s tiny feet—and the baby quiets, as if memory could be felt through skin.
One day, Grace will hear the whole story—not as gossip, but as a compass: that her father chose dignity over spectacle, love over influence; that her mother valued work over glitter; that her great-grandmother’s hands still had something worthy to offer when the world said otherwise.
