Momma tilts her head, confusion flickering across her face before it’s replaced with curiosity.
“Well,” she says gently, crouching just a bit so she’s not towering over her, “who do we have here?”
Ruby looks up at me like she’s waiting for permission.
I tug her forward so she’s standing in front of me, my hands coming down to rest on her shoulders. And I’m unsure which one of us is shaking.
“Momma,” I say, my voice rough, “this is Ruby.”
My throat tightens as I swallow.
“Your granddaughter.”
The word hangs heavy between us.
She blinks a few times, letting my words sink in, before her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes snap back to mine, wide and shining as tears flood them instantly.
“My what?” she gasps.
“She’s mine,” I say, and the words crack. I have to stop, breathe, pull myself back together before I can finish. “And we—” I shake my head, forcing the truth out. “We need a place to stay.”
She blinks rapidly, tears spilling over now, running down her cheeks.
“Here?” she asks softly, like she’s afraid she misunderstood what I was asking.
I nod once. “Can I come home, Momma?”
She doesn’t hesitate.
A sound breaks from her chest—half sob, half laugh—and she steps forward, wrapping her arms around me so tightly that I feel it clear down to my bones. Ruby gets squished between us, startled at first, then giggling as she’s pulled into the embrace.
“Oh, my baby,” Momma cries. “Oh, Waylon.”
She pulls back, still holding on to me, then laughs through her tears and drops down onto one knee in front of Ruby.
“Well, hello, Ruby,” she says, her voice warm and trembling. “I guess I’m your grandmother. My name is Priscilla, but you can call me Nana.”
Ruby looks at her—really looks at her—then glances up at me.
“Nana?” she repeats.
Momma nods, eyes shining. “If you’d like.”
Ruby considers this, then smiles, small and shy.
“Okay,” she says. “Nana.”
Momma presses a hand to her heart like it might burst right out of her chest.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh my goodness. How old are you, sweetheart?”
Ruby holds up three fingers.
“Wow, three years old?” Momma whispers, and her eyes meet mine. I can see the barrage of questions swirling behind her gaze.Why am I just finding out about her? Where have you been living? Where is her mother?
“Four,” I correct, glancing down at my girl. “Remember, we had a cake for your birthday last week?”
“Oh yeah. I’m this many now,” she says, holding up another finger.
