“So does that mean…”
He trailed off, but I knew what he was asking. “I probably won’t know for sure if I get Maisy until the day they decide to release her from the hospital.” I looked around and whispered, “Unless someone decides to claim her before then.”
“So, they could just, like, get her back?” Mason asked.
I nodded. “Unbelievable, but yes.”
Greer shimmied down from Mason’s side. George grabbed an empty paper towel roll off the counter and swatted his sister’s arm with it. Then he took off.
“Hey!” she called, running behind him.
Aunt Tilley—in a pair of black pants and a blouse, not a costume—walked into the kitchen.
“Sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t let them behave that way.”
She waved her hand, and I covered my mouth. “Oh my goodness! I need to make you dinner.”
She shook her head. “No, no. I make my own dinner. I’ll make some for you too. I was planning on it.” She smiled at Mason. “And I hope my favorite nearly nephew will stay too, please.”
I didn’t know this woman well. But I could tell that she was about to ask me for something. She was off to a great start. Feeding me was a great way to my heart.
The screen door slammed again, and I heard Elizabeth’s distinctivevoice say, “George Thaysden, donothit your grandmother with a paper towel roll.”
Tilley sighed and rolled her eyes. “She’s here. Of course she is.”
“But it’s a pirate sword!” George protested. “Argh!”
“Right,” I heard Olivia say. “It’s a pirate sword, Elizabeth. Don’t be so pedestrian.”
I ran into the entrance hall, realizing that I should probably be policing this moment, and Amelia would likely be getting calls in Jost Van Dyke that her babysitter was unfit.
“We were coming to see if you needed help,” Olivia said.
“But it’s clear that you have things completely under control,” Elizabeth added nonchalantly, as Greer shrieked and, in a deft move, jumped from the couch to George’s back, stealing the paper towel roll and darting up the stairs.
To his credit, he didn’t freak out, only called, “You’re going to walk the plank.”
He ran over to hug both his grandmothers as the timer on the oven went off. “Greer!” I called. “Dino nugget time!”
Elizabeth shook her head. “That is not real food.”
“I have never,” Olivia agreed.
Poor Amelia. I had a feeling she got a lot of unsolicited parenting advice.
Greer and George both raced ahead of me into the kitchen and climbed onto barstools at the island.
I pulled the nuggets out, squeezed ketchup on their plates, and retrieved the squeezy applesauce from the fridge that would have to suffice as produce. I poured them cups of milk as Tilley, Elizabeth, Olivia, and Mason looked on.
“You’re doing great,” Mason said, laughing, apparently realizing they were all serving as my audience without helping.
Tilley sprang into action first. “I’m going to make us a lovely apple and feta salad with turkey breast,” she said. “Elizabeth, Olivia. Will you be joining us?”
“I have my own chicken roasting,” Olivia said.
Tilley looked tentatively at Elizabeth, who eyed me as I placed the plates down in front of the kids—who dove in with gusto—and said, “Well, no. I suppose you three have it under control here.”
She seemed disappointed.
