"He's here for all of you," Grant corrects. "Emma, he's proud of you. Even if he can't quite say it."
"I know." And I do. I saw it in his eyes when I told him about the possibility of Bergdorf's last week. The flash of genuine pleasure before he buried it under his usual gruffness.
My mother was more effusive. Cried, actually, which made me cry, which made Grant offer us both tissues and then tactfully disappear to give us space.
She's different now too. More present. More herself.
She left my father three months after the twins were born.
Not permanently—they're still married, still living together. But she moved into an apartment for two months, and when she came back, things had shifted.
She stands up to him now. Sets boundaries. Pursues her own interests—she's taking painting classes and loving every minute of it.
"I spent forty years making myself smaller," she told me once. "Your father needed to remember what it's like when I don't."
I'd hugged her so hard she laughed.
Grant's phone chimes. He checks it, then shows me the screen.
Samantha:Running late. Traffic is a nightmare. Be there in 30. Tell the munchkins Auntie Sam loves them.
"She's coming too?" I ask.
"She texted this morning. Wanted to see the twins before she heads back to school."
Samantha's in her junior year at Columbia now, studying political science with a minor in environmental policy. She wants to work in climate advocacy, which surprises exactly noone who's spent five minutes talking to her about the state of the planet.
She and I get coffee every few weeks. Talk about her classes, her girlfriend, her complicated feelings about her mother.
Victoria is still in New York, still on her charity boards, still elegantly dismissive of Grant's existence. But her power to hurt us evaporated the night of the gala. She's a peripheral figure now, barely worth mentioning.
Samantha sees her sometimes. Maintains a relationship out of obligation more than affection.
"She's my mother," she explained once. "I can't just cut her out completely. But I also don't have to let her poison everything good in my life."
Wise beyond her years, that girl.
Clara toddles over to Grant, her arms outstretched. He scoops her up automatically, settling her on his lap.
"Dada, book," she demands, pointing at the stack beside the sofa.
"Please," he prompts.
"Pease."
"Much better." He reaches for the top book—The Very Hungry Caterpillar, her current obsession. "Should we read about the caterpillar again?"
"Yes!" She bounces excitedly.
I watch them, my heart doing that swelling thing it does about forty times a day. Grant's voice is animated as he reads, doing different voices for the caterpillar and the various foods. Clara is enthralled, her little hand patting the pages.
James abandons his climbing expedition to toddle over. "Me too!"
Grant shifts to make room, and suddenly I have my entire family piled on the sofa beside me. One toddler on Grant's lap,one wedged between us, and Grant's free arm still around my shoulders.
This. This is everything.
The business call from this morning feels like it happened in another lifetime. The stress of the upcoming launch, the pressure of scaling Essence to meet demand, the constant juggling of being a CEO and a mother—all of it fades into background noise.
