I just felt a deep, overwhelming warmth.

I reached across the counter and took her hands.

They were cold, and her fingers were trembling.

“My husband is a very stubborn man, Maya,” I said, my voice shaking as I gave her a watery smile.

“And he is terrible at keeping secrets.”

“But he was right about one thing.”

“We need to talk.”

Maya let out a shaky breath, her shoulders collapsing as she let go of the tension.

She squeezed my hands back.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Dave walked back into the diner a moment later, his jacket soaking wet, looking like a man waiting for a firing squad.

I looked at him and pointed to the booth.

“Go sit down, Dave,” I said.

“And put that faded leather wallet away. You’ve spent enough money for today.”

He let out a loud, emotional laugh, wiping his face with the back of his wet sleeve.

We sat in that vinyl booth for three hours.

Maya’s shift ended at two, and she brought over a pot of fresh coffee and sat with us.

We talked about everything.

We talked about her adoptive parents, her life in Toledo, and the baby girl she was expecting in the spring.

I told her about my life, our home, and the garden I kept in the backyard.

It wasn’t a perfect, cinematic reunion.

It was awkward and messy, and we both cried into the cheap paper napkins.

But it was real.

That was six months ago.

Maya moved into our guest bedroom last month.

Her apartment was drafty and the landlord was a nightmare, so Dave and I decided it was time for her to come home.

Yesterday morning, my granddaughter was born.

Her name is Sarah, and she has the tiniest little blonde curls you’ve ever seen.

We brought them home from the hospital this afternoon.

Our house is no longer quiet.

There are baby clothes drying on the racks in the kitchen, and the smell of baby powder has completely replaced the musty scent of our old living room.

Just an hour ago, I walked into the kitchen and saw Dave standing by the sink.

He was washing a plastic baby bottle, carefully scrubbing the nipple with a tiny brush.

His old faded leather wallet was sitting on the counter next to the microwave, right beside a stack of grocery coupons.

He looked up at me, his eyes tired but happier than I have seen them in thirty years.

“She needs to eat every three hours, Clara,” he whispered, as if he were an expert on newborns.

“I’ve got the next shift.”

I walked over, leaned my head against his shoulder, and watched the rain tap against the windowpane.

We still have to budget carefully, and we won’t be eating out at any restaurants for a very long time.

But for the first time in my life, I don’t care about the cost.