I accept the package, not sure what to say. "Helen?—"
"He's stubborn." Her voice is firm despite the tears. "You know that. You've known him forever. But Grant—he's hurting. And when he hurts, he gets angry. Pushes people away."
"I know." The words come out rough. "But what he said to Emma?—"
"Was cruel. And wrong." Helen looks at her daughter, her expression pained. "Emma, sweetheart, I'm not making excuses for him. What he said when he found out, the way he's acted—it's inexcusable. But I know he loves you so much. He's just too proud to admit he was wrong."
Emma's jaw tightens. "He disowned me, Mom. He said I was no longer his daughter."
"I know." Fresh tears spill down Helen's cheeks. "And I told him that he was throwing away his relationship with his only child over his own wounded pride. We've been fighting about it for months."
The image of Helen—quiet, subdued Helen—fighting with David makes me see her in a whole different light.
Helen looks down at Clara sleeping in her arms. "I told him that his grandchildren were about to be born. That he could either be part of their lives, or he could be a stubborn old fool who let his pride cost him everything that matters." Her smile is sad. "He didn't come with me. But he wrapped this. Badly, obviously. And he told me to give it to you."
I look down at the package in my hands. The paper is creased, the ribbon tied in a lopsided bow. I can picture David at the kitchen table, fumbling with tape and scissors, too proud to ask for help.
Too proud to come himself, but maybe wishing he could.
"Open it," Emma says quietly.
I pull the ribbon loose, peel back the paper. Inside is a small white box.
Inside the box are two teddy bears.
They're identical—soft cream-colored fur, velvety brown embroidered eyes, little plaid bow ties. The kind of classic teddy bear that all babies should have.
"There's a card," Helen says softly.
I unfold it. David's handwriting is barely legible, the letters cramped and uneven.
Take care of them. And take care of my daughter.
—D
Not "love." Not "congratulations." Not even his full name.
But it's something. A tiny opening that suggests maybe—maybe—there's a path back.
I look up at Helen, then at Emma. She's crying silently, her hand pressed over her mouth.
"He'll come around," Helen says. "He's already softening. I can see it. It might take time, but—hewillcome around."
"I don't want him in their lives if he's going to treat Emma the way he did," I say. My voice is steady despite the emotion churning inside me. "I won’t have it.”
"I know." Helen shifts Clara carefully, then moves to hand her back to Emma. "And I'm not asking you to forgive him today. Or tomorrow. I'm just asking you to—to leave the door open. For when he's ready."
Emma looks at me, tears streaming down her face. I see the conflict in her eyes—the old wound warring with hope.
I move to sit on the edge of the bed beside her, Clara between us, James still nestled in her other arm.
"It's your choice," I tell Emma quietly. "Whatever you decide, I support you. If you want to shut him out permanently, I'll stand with you. If you want to give him a chance to earn his way back, I'll stand with you. This is your call."
She looks down at the twins, then at the two teddy bears I'm still holding.
Helen wipes at her eyes. "He's not ready to admit it yet, but he's proud of you. Proud of the family you're building."
Emma's tears fall faster now. I set the teddy bears down carefully and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her and our children close.
