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Her thumbs brush the wetness from my cheeks, and I realize I’ve been crying. Her eyes are glossy, shining with unshed tears and something older—grief, maybe. Or pride. Or both. Her voice is thick, raw around the edges.

“I don’t care why she’s here, or what kind of hell she’s dragging in with her,” she says, the words low and certain, the kind that don’t leave room for argument. “What I care about is you. My Little Lou.”

I close my eyes, but she doesn’t let me hide. Her thumbs press just slightly firmer, anchoring me to the moment.

“You used to curl up in my lap with a busted lip and fire in your belly,” she continues, softer now, like she’s talking to the girl I used to be. “You were a hellion even then. Wild, hurting, stubborn as hell, but you never gave up. Not once.”

A tremble runs through me, sharp and silent. Her words burrow deep, scraping against everything I’ve buried.

“You grew into someone good, baby. So good it hurts sometimes to look at you.” Her voice cracks then, tears slipping down her cheeks without shame. “I know Murphy—wherever he is—he’s just as proud of the woman you’ve become as I am.”

Her words land like a stone in still water, stirring something I’ve kept buried so deep for so long, I almost forgot it was still there. And just like that, I feel it crack wide open.

That ache.

That shame.

That hollow space inside me I’ve tried to pretend didn’t matter.

Because how could it not?

I remember being that wild, scraped-up girl Maggie loved through all the storms—bruised, stubborn, always fighting to be enough. But back then, I believed I’d never be enough. Now? Now I’m not so sure.

There’s this part of me—this broken, aching part—that still thinks I failed before I ever had a chance to try. That not being able to carry a child means I missed the one thing I was supposed to be made for. That no matter how fiercely I love, no matter how hard I fight for the people in my life…there’s always been this voice in the back of my head whispering, You’ll never be enough. Not fully. Not truly.

Maggie’s hands are soft on my cheeks, grounding me in a way that’s both unbearable and necessary. I want to look away—because how can she still see something good when I feel so God damn defective?

I don’t. I meet her eyes. What I see there…it splits me open.

It’s not pity.

It’s truth.

She believes it. Every word. Every bit of it. Maybe…maybe she sees the kind of mother I could’ve been in the way I love people now. Maybe she sees past what I can’t give, and sees what I already have.

“I don’t feel like enough,” I whisper, and it shatters something inside me to finally say it out loud.

Maggie doesn’t flinch. She just keeps her hands on my face, thumbs brushing gently under my eyes, catching tears I didn’t even know had fallen.

“I try,” I whisper, barely holding it together. “God, I try so hard, but it’s never enough.”

My body trembles, shoulders drawn in like I’m bracing for a blow. “I can’t give him what they can. I can’t carry his child.”

The words sting. I press my lips together, breathing shallow.

“I—”

It catches in my throat, splintering.

“I never…never could.”

My voice breaks, and I can’t look at her anymore. My shame is too loud. Too old. Too deep. “Every time I see a child look at their mother like she hung the damn moon, I feel like I’m made of nothing.”

My whole body shakes, but I don’t stop. “Like there’s something missing in me. Like I came into this world already lacking.”

Maggie presses her forehead to mine, her breath trembling now too.

“Lou,” she says, voice tight with emotion, “you think being a mother is about biology? About giving birth?” She shakes her head. “That’s not what makes someone a mother. That’s never been what made you.”