“Best! Grandma! Ever!” Sophie shrieked, hugging Gigi’s legs.
I stood by the grill, smoke in my eyes, forcing a smile. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s the excitement. This is normal.
But later, the house quieted down. Gigi was in the living room showing the kids a video. I was in the kitchen, scraping cake plates and loading the dishwasher—my usual station.
I heard Sophie’s voice drift in from the hallway.
“I wish Gigi lived here,” she said.
Then I heard my daughter, Sarah. My own daughter, whose diaper bag I packed for three years, whose mortgage I helped with when times were tight.
“I know, honey,” Sarah laughed. “Gigi is so much fun.”
“Yeah,” Sophie said. “Nana is just… strict. She’s the boring one. She always makes us do homework.”
I froze. I waited. I waited for Sarah to say, “Nana is the reason you get to play soccer. Nana is the reason you have clean clothes. Nana is the one who holds your hair back when you have the stomach flu.”
But Sarah just sighed. “Well, that’s just Nana. Gigi is the fun grandma.”
