Exhaustion tugging at her edges, but Sigrid’s weight in her arms kept her tethered. For the first time since that night on the porch, she believed it might be true. Years slipped by in Eleanor’s little brick house, each one stitching Freya and Sigrid tighter into its cosy fabric.
Sigrid grew from a squalling bundle into a wiry, bright-eyed boy, his dark, fluffy hair now a tousled mop that caught the sunlight. By five, he was a whirlwind of questions. Why do birds sing? How do clouds float? His curiosity as endless as the Springfield sky.
Freya and Eleanor took turns answering, marvelling at how his mind raced ahead of his small frame. But one sticky summer evening, as the crickets chirped and the air hung heavy with honeysuckle, his questions veered into sharper territory. They were out on the veranda, the old wooden boards creaking under their weight.
Eleanor sat in her wicker rocker, knitting a lumpy blue scarf, her latest project, while Sigrid sprawled on the steps, a half-melted popsicle dripping orange onto his fingers. The sun dipped low, painting the garden in shades of gold and pink, the winter roses long replaced by sprawling marigolds. He’d been quiet for a while, unusual for him, until he turned those big, serious hazel eyes on her, eyes that reminded her too much of Freya at that age.
Grandma, he said, his voice cutting through the hum of dusk. Why do all the kids at kindergarten have grandpas and grandmas and I’ve never seen mine? Mum says you’re my great-grandma. What’s that mean? Eleanor’s knitting needles stilled, the yarn tangling in her lap.
She’d known this day would come, kids always sniffed out the gaps in their stories, but the weight of it still caught her off guard. She set the scarf aside, folding her hands to buy a moment, her weathered fingers tracing the lines of a life that hadn’t been easy. Sigrid watched her, popsicle forgotten, his brow furrowing like he could sense the shift.
Sigrid, she started, her voice soft but steady. That’s not a simple question, sweetheart. It’s… well, it’s a grown-up mess.
And you’re still little. But I’ll try. Sometimes adults make mistakes, big ones.
Your grandpa and grandma, my son and his wife, they got scared a long time ago. He tilted his head, confusion wrinkling his nose. Scared? Of what? Me? He sat up straighter, the popsicle stick clattering onto the step.
I was just a baby when I got borned. How could they be scared of a baby? Eleanor chuckled faintly, though her chest tightened. Not of you exactly, little man.
It’s hard to explain till you’re older, but I’ll give it a go. When your mum found out you were coming, it shook them up. They couldn’t see how special it was, how special you’d be.
They got stuck worrying about what folks around town might whisper, instead of how much your mum wanted you. Sigrid’s frown deepened, his small hands bawling into fists. So they didn’t want me.
His voice wobbled, barely above a whisper, and the hurt in it sliced straight through her. No, no, darling, Eleanor said quickly, leaning forward to cup his sticky cheek in her palm. That’s not true, not for a second.
They just… They didn’t know what to do with their feelings. People can be slow to figure things out, and sometimes they miss the good stuff till it’s gone. But your mum… She chose love from the start, chose you.
That’s what matters most. He stared at her, processing, then turned his gaze out to the garden. The last rays of sun glinted off the marigolds, and a breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint buzz of a lawnmower down the street.
But you’re here, he said finally, glancing back at her, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. You’re always with me, right, Grandma? Always, my dear, Eleanor replied, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She reached out, ruffling his hair.
Because family’s not just who you’re born to, it’s who sticks by you, who loves you through the thick of it, and I ain’t going anywhere. Sigrid grinned, a gap-toothed flash that chased the shadows off his face. Good, he said, picking up his popsicle stick to fiddle with it, because I like it better with you anyway.
Eleanor laughed, a low, warm sound, and picked up her knitting again. Me too, kiddo. Me too.
The rocker creaked as she settled back, the evening wrapping around them like a quilt, imperfect, patched, but holding fast. Freya stood at the kitchen sink, her hands wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a pot that didn’t need scrubbing. Through the open window, the murmur of Sigrid’s voice and Eleanor’s gravelly replies drifted in from the veranda, carried on the warm August breeze.
She’d caught the tail end of it, they didn’t want me. And her breath hitched, the sponge slipping from her fingers to plop into the suds. Tears welled up, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks before she could blink them back.
She pressed a damp hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. That old wound, her parents’ rejection, the sting of being cast out, ripped open anew hearing Sigrid wrestle with it. But Eleanor’s voice, steady and kind, wove through the pain like a balm, softening the edges.
As always, her grandmother knew just what to say, shielding Sigrid’s tender heart without dodging the truth. Mom? Sigrid’s voice piped up from the doorway, snapping her out of it. He padded in, barefoot and sticky-fingered, his popsicle stick still clutched like a prize.
You okay? Your eyes are all wet? Freya swiped at her face with a dish towel, forcing a smile. Yeah, buddy, I’m fine. Just got some soap in my eyes.
Stings like crazy. She turned back to the sink, rinsing the pot for the third time. How’s Grandma’s scarf coming along? It’s lumpy, he said with a giggle, hopping onto a stool at the counter.
She says it’s character. I think it’s funny-looking. Sounds like Grandma, Freya said, her laugh shaky but real.
She glanced out the window again, Eleanor rocking in her chair, knitting needles clicking, and felt a rush of gratitude. Sigrid didn’t press further, already distracted, chattering about a beetle he’d seen in the garden. She let his words wash over her, anchoring her back to the present.
The years rolled on, each one piling new challenges onto their little family. Sigrid shot up like a weed, lanky legs, a mop of hair that refused taming, and a mind that buzzed louder every day. By second grade, school became his playground.
He was the kid who lingered after class, peppering Mrs. Larson with questions about why leaves turned red or how magnets stuck. Science hooked him hardest. Biology, physics, anything with a puzzle to crack.
He’d come home with library books dog-eared and smudged, sprawling on the living room rug to sketch diagrams of circuits or bug wings. He’s got a gift, Mrs. Larson told Freya at a parent-teacher night, her glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights of Springfield Elementary. Loves solving problems, finds these elegant little answers that make you wonder why you didn’t see it that way.
And the way he explains it? Half the class gets it because of him. Freya beamed, clutching a styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee. He’s always been like that, figuring stuff out, drives me nuts sometimes, all those whys.
Well, hang on to that, Mrs. Larson said with a chuckle. Kids going places. Back home, Sigrid proved it daily.
One rainy afternoon, he sat cross-legged at the kitchen table, a dismantled flashlight spread out before him, batteries, bulb, bits of wire. Look, Mom, he called, holding up a glowing contraption. Timmy didn’t get how it worked, so I showed him with this.
It’s just electrons moving. Simple, right? Freya leaned over, ruffling his hair. Simple for you, maybe.