I chuckle. “Only for you.”
She heads out, her heels clicking against the floor. “Goodbye, my bella Jay,” she calls.
I smile as the door clicks shut. I gather what I need, pack a bag, and then enter the bedroom.
Our son stirs, arms stretching above his head in a slow-motion yawn. His red hair stands in soft tufts, his sky-blue eyes blinking up at me.
Yes, we have a son. He’ll be six months old in a few weeks.
I told you, we’ve been busy.
“Look who’s up just in time,” I say, lifting him into my arms. He lets out a curious little sigh and rests his cheek against my collarbone.
I change his diaper on the bed with one hand steadying his wiggling legs. He kicks once, twice, then coos out a string of babbles. “Da-da, ba-ba.”
I carry him to the window and hold him close as we look out. Downtown Chicago glows beneath us, glass towers rising between the river and the lake, the streets already alive with motion.
I glance up at the sky, the city lights soft beneath the clouds. “We’re in Chicago, Mom. Mabel’s speaking at an event. My family is doing well,” I whisper, my voice catching as I bounce my boy against my chest.
Talking to my mother started before I realized it. A word here, a whisper there. I found myself speaking to her during those long nights after the birth of our son when I’d take a feeding and let Mabel sleep. I’m not sure why I started doing this. Maybe holding him makes me wonder what she’d say if she could see me now. Whatever the reason, there’s comfort in these moments. My boy curls into me, warm and at peace. I talk, and in some strange, tender way, it feels like she hears me.
I’ll never know what she’d say about Mabel, about Jamie, or about this full and beautiful life we’ve made. But I like to believe she’d be proud. I like to believe she’d smile at the sound of her grandson babbling against my shoulder.
I grab the bag, and we make our way down to the ballroom. The crew gave us a walkthrough yesterday. The narrow corridor backstage feels familiar now. A stagehand nods and opens the door for us. I step into the quiet hum of the back hall, positioning myself behind the curtain with our son balanced against my hip.
The announcer’s voice rings out. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our keynote speaker. In her hometown of Elverna, Illinois, she’s helped revolutionize sustainable farm marketing, led philanthropic initiatives, and launched national scholarship programs. Her work has been published inVogue, featured inHarper’s Bazaar, and spotlighted in both fashion and agricultural journals, where she continues to champion sustainable style and revive vintage couture for a new generation. Please give a warm welcome to Mabel Muldowney Horner.”
Applause swells, and she steps into view. But she doesn’t head out right away. She turns her head, her dress catching the light, her hair swept back. She meets my gaze, and our son lets out a quiet coo, reaching toward her. She smiles and lifts her hand in a soft wave.
I nod to her, fighting tears. I can’t help it. I see the girl who ran barefoot through the fields and the woman who owns my heart. I see the fire, the grace, and the grit that changed an entire town.
“There she is,Jamie,” I say. “That’s your mom. Your uncle knew she’d change lives, and we’re the lucky ones who get to be by her side and watch her do it.”
