Later, at a small private reception in the back of the gallery, Elena raised a glass and introduced Catherine as part of the early history of the Richie brand. People approached my mother with admiration and curiosity.
Then Elena introduced Margaret.
“This,” Elena said, hand resting lightly on Margaret’s shoulder, “is Margaret Thompson. She spent years trying to erase her beginnings in order to survive. And she’s now spending the rest of her life trying to become someone her granddaughter can admire for the right reasons.”
The room was quiet for a moment.
Margaret’s eyes widened, panic flickering—then something else: relief.
Nobody laughed. Nobody whispered. A few people nodded as if Elena had named something they recognized in themselves.
Margaret’s breath shuddered out. She looked at me, as if asking if she could hold onto this honesty without falling apart.
I gave her a small nod.
After the reception, as we waited for the elevator, Margaret turned to my mother.
“Catherine,” she said, voice low, “did you ever… miss it?”
My mother smiled gently. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “Not the pressure. Not the hunger. But the creativity. The artistry.”
Margaret swallowed. “I miss… feeling like I didn’t have to pretend,” she said.
My mother’s gaze softened. “Then stop,” she said simply.
Back home, a month later, David and I found out I was pregnant again.
This time, the fear came with joy instead of panic. We’d done this before. We had supports. We had boundaries.
When we told Margaret, she sat down hard on our couch.
“Oh,” she whispered, then laughed, then cried in one messy breath. “Another baby.”
Lily clapped. “I’m getting a sibling!”
Margaret wiped her eyes and looked at me. “I want to help,” she said quickly. “But I want to do it the right way. Tell me what you need, and if you don’t need anything, tell me that too.”
I smiled. “Start with Saturday mornings,” I said. “If you want time with Lily, take her to the park so I can nap.”
Margaret nodded immediately, serious as if accepting a mission.
When our son, Jack, was born in spring, Margaret held him like he was made of possibility.
“He looks like David,” she whispered.
David smiled. “Poor kid.”
Margaret laughed, real and bright.
My mother stood beside her, hand resting on Margaret’s back for just a moment—two women who had once stood on opposite sides of an invisible wall, now holding it up together.