I’ll hold her in my arms tomorrow; she’ll wrap her tiny fingers around mine. I’ll be amazed that someone so new can make my heart ache with such love.
We’ll call her Lily, selected from the list of names I've kept tucked in my pocket since we discovered I was having a girl. We’ll bring her home from the hospital and nurture her; we’ll watch her grow, sit up, stack building blocks, take her first step, say her first word.
She’ll have long strawberry blonde hair, and I’ll plait it for her on her first day of school, I’ll curl it for her first sleepover. I’ll slip turquoise grips into it for prom, and help her zip up her dress.
On the day she goes to university, I’ll pretend not to cry; although I’ll have suspiciously puffy eyes. Steve will laugh at me, but his voice will crack. Neither of us will want to let her go.
“Oh Mum,” she’ll say. “I’ll be back at Christmas. You’ll hardly have time to miss me.” But her arms will draw us in for one last hug.
She’ll graduate; she’ll find a job that’s not quite her perfect job but good enough. “A stepping stone,” she’ll say, using my pet phrase without even realising.
She’ll have plans: travelling, a year working in New Zealand, to see her dress designs on the catwalks.
But her plans will be interrupted. “Mum, I've met someone.”
“Mum, I’m getting married.”
“Mum, I’m having a baby.”And, too soon, my granddaughter will wrap her tiny fingers around mine.
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