The whole process, it. It begins moving quickly, once you and Santana meet with Dina. She gets to know you both. And you try. You try not to speak with too many pauses. You try not to ask her to repeat herself too much. Santana. Santana, she holds your hand through it all. She translates her speech into sign for you, because she sees you struggling to understand the quick words. She looks at you when you speak too. She gives you tiny, almost imperceptible nods. Assuring you. You picture her words in them. Sweetheart, you're doing great, take your time. Because you always picture the Sweetheart in your head when you interpret her gestures. You love that word on her lips. It calms you. It always calms you.

You have to get a physical. It absolutely terrifies you. Not the physical part. Well, that does. A little. Too. But. The having to present it to Dina. The having it in your file. That three letter acronym. T. B. I. That four letter word. D. E. A. F. They've felt like black marks for you your entire life, and you just. You don't. You can't have them be now. Not on this. Not on this most important thing. So you talk to the doctors. Your neurologist and your general practitioner. You ask them if they think you're fit to be a mother. And when they tell you yes. First you cry, both times, in Santana's arms. Because it feels really good to know a professional says that. And then. Then you ask them to write notes. Saying your disabilities won't impact how capable you are. And you hope, you hope it will keep that dreaded black mark away.

Four times. Four times you meet with Dina in her office at the agency. She's teeny tiny, and she has little glasses that are usually on the top of her head. She reviews your legal records, your background checks, even Otis' background. She takes your references. From Marcus, from Santana's boss, from your literary agent, and even from Carson and his family, because you both thought maybe, maybe it would be nice. To see what kind of people you are. She asks you questions. So many questions. She watches how you interact with Santana. She watches as Santana signs things for you, because, try as you might, there's— there's a lot she says that you struggle to understand. She's stripping you bare, you think. But you don't hate it. Not as much as you thought you would. Because she's not doing it to get too close to you. She's doing it because she needs to know that you're right for a child. So you don't shy away. Or. You try not to. You crisp your words. Best as you can. And you answer, honestly, earnestly. You hold your head up high when you answer questions about your family. Just like Santana does, when she tells Dina that she has no father, no known family besides her mother. And on those nights. Those four nights. In bed. You reassure each other that it's going to be totally fine. That your past, the things you can't control, don't define you. That your experiences with your family, they'll only make you stronger mothers.

After the fourth visit, at the end of September, Dina calls and says that she wants to set up a home visit. You're not sure. Not sure if you're ecstatic that you've reached another. Checkpoint. Of sorts. Or if you're going to collapse with anxiety. Your home. It's nice. It's clean. It's safe. But. You're not an expert. Santana isn't an expert. So you think maybe, maybe, the anxiety is winning. For both of you. Because even she isn't calm, cool, collected. Like she usually is. The weekend before. You go to Buy Buy Baby together. You feel strange and out of place in there. You've both agreed not to look at baby things. Not yet. So you bypass the cute clothes and strollers and toys. You go to the home safety section. Because that feels important to have done. For Dina to see. To see that you're serious. About your maybe future child's safety. You buy latches and locks for cabinets and drawers. For toilet seats. For the oven and refrigerator. You buy window locks and covers for plugs. You buy anchors that keep heavy furniture from tipping. You spend Saturday together, installing everything. Santana, cursing, you think. From the look on her face as she struggles. And on Sunday, you go to brunch, and you have one more mimosa than you normally would. Because it's a lot. You're overwhelmed. And having that third drink, then walking around Reading Terminal for a few hours, Santana's arm wrapped around you, it helps to settle your rising nerves.

When the day comes, Santana, she has to work in the morning. You'd cleaned the whole house together the day before, but. But you can't help yourself. You have to do it again. And. You want to bake cookies. You'd burn a candle, too, a vanilla one. Except you're not sure if that will show you're safe. So you're going to skip it. The kitchen floors. You want to scrub them again. You just. You need it to be perfect. You can't leave any stones unturned. Even though it's clean. You think. You think of a baby, crawling there. And. And you have to do it again. Really get into the grout. Once the cookies are in the oven, you get the scrub brush. You work every inch of it. And when Santana comes home, you're still on your hands and knees. Your hands, they're maybe a little raw, and you might have burned the inside of your wrist on the top of the oven, pulling out a tray of cookies. But you don't know how to channel your anxiety another way. It's not. It's not really obsessive compulsive. It's just. The way you've always handled your highest stress.

You'd seen the lights flash, indicating Santana's arrival, but it hadn't stopped you in your work. Her presence doesn't stop you. Not until you feel her hand on the small of your back, making you jump, just a little. You lift your head up, and her brow. It's furrowed in concern. Her lashes, dark and thick. They open and close rapidly. And she pauses a minute. Before she speaks. She pauses a little, and she looks you over. Hair fallen out of your messy bun and into your face. Old work clothes, covered in both bleach stains and paint stains. And she takes the brush from you, she drops it in the bucket, and she takes your hand and helps you to your feet.

Are we serving those cookies on the floor? She tries to joke. And even though you can't hear the tone of her voice. You know, you know it fell flat. Did you spill something?

"No. I just. I had some time. And. The grout. I figured. I don't know."

Hey. She smiles. Soft. So soft. So loving. So everything. Why don't you go take a shower? I'll put all of this away. The floor looks really good. The house looks even better than when I left.

"Okay. Okay, yeah." You nod, and you kiss her lips. Saying hello. The way she gets you, it's just, something else, really. She doesn't chastise you for being a little crazy. She doesn't do anything except. Except take your hand and calm you. Make you feel just. Just like it's going to be okay. And that's all you need. Really.

Santana, she stands up with you. She traces her thumb over the shell of your ear, and. You kiss her again. Love. Gratitude. Hope. Hope that it all goes well. Because this. This is the last step. Before you get approved. Before they release your information. To pregnant women, searching for a family for the unborn baby they carry. To the foster care system, looking for parents for babies who have already been born. You think, you think, that second option, it might be what happens for you. You just. You have a sort of feeling. You don't know why. But you do. You kiss Santana again. Again, again. Your wife's lips, they're a balm. Such a soothing balm, for your every insecurity, and she holds you there, for just a moment. Before she looks down at your hands, and she frowns, deeply, at the little burn, at the chafing.

Take your time in there, sweetheart. She kisses your forehead. She rubs her nose with yours. You've been so worried taking care of everything that you're forgetting to take care of the most important thing, you. We have plenty of time left, just relax in there. Please?

"Do you want to. Maybe take one with me?" You ask her, feeling a little sheepish. But. But you just. Really want to be intimate with your wife like that right now. Not in a sexual way. That's not where your deepest intimacies come. You just want skin pressed to skin. You want her fingers in your hair, your hands, lathering her skin. That. That'll calm you more than anything else, you think.

Of course, Britt. Go ahead in, and I'll meet you there in a few minutes.

Otis follows you into the bathroom. He finds his place in the corner, and he lies down. You undress, and you revel in the feeling of the hot water seeping into your skin, swirling away bleach and sweat and the flour that ended up in your hair. The lights flash, when Santana comes into the room, and it doesn't take long for her to shed her work clothes and open the curtain. She shivers, before she steps beneath the spray with you. And. You feel your whole body sigh when her naked skin presses to your naked skin. Taking her time, she washes your hair. She knows how much you love it when she does. Whenever you make the time to shower together. The pads of her fingers, they massage your scalp, behind your ears, your whole head. Then you wash her body. Slow. Loving. You press your lips to her throat. Your feel her pulse beat against them. And by the time you're finished, you feel like. Like you're melting. Limp. Soft. Comfortable. The way you think, maybe, you need to be, at least at the start of the visit.

You take your time getting ready. You check the clock, and, you still have over an hour. So you take turns with the blow dryer. You put a little makeup on. Though you don't, not very often. You pull on a skirt. A t-shirt. Some ankle boots. Because you're being you. You won't feel comfortable in one of the dresses like Santana wears, though she. She looks so pretty in them. And when she turns to you, smoothing the front of the one she's wearing, you, you tell her as much. She smiles. Ducking her head a little. Before she looks back into your eyes. Before she tells you that you're beautiful. Before she kisses your forehead. Just because.

She lit a candle. Before she got in the shower. You bite back a little smile when you see it. Flickering on the counter. Flickering like her eyes. Because you don't want to tell her about your silly thoughts. Not until later. The smell of bleach is gone. The kitchen. The whole house, really, smells like vanilla. Smells like a home that's welcoming. She'd put the cookies on a plate on the counter. And it just looks ready, so ready for Dina's visit. You still have time, just a little, and you sit down on the couch. You don't talk. You don't need to. It's better like this. It's better sitting peacefully. Breathing in your wife, under the smiling portrait of the two of you on your wedding day. Otis, resting comfortably on his bed. This home. Your home. It's happy. It's safe. It's full of love. And. And you think. You think Dina will see the same thing.

When the doorbell lights flash, you stiffen, just a little, in Santana's arms. She does too, you think. Sheputs on a brave face for you, all the time, but she's nervous too. She has butterflies, for sure. You tell Otis to stay, that it's okay, and, together. Together you go down the stairs. Santana, she sucks in a breath, you think, before she opens the door. You both. You try not to look to stiff. Too rigid. You try to be natural. Like you'd planned. But your mind. It's working faster than it knows how. So it's difficult. When the door opens, you both smile. And you hope, you hope, it doesn't come off Stepford-like. You hope you look genuine. Because you are. You're so genuine. More than anything, you want this woman. The one who determines if you're fit to have a child. To feel your hospitality.

Before you lead Dina upstairs to the living room, you feel Santana's finger on your hand, drawing a quick heart. You need it. She needs it. And you fill your lungs, before you usher the social worker up the stairs. She sits down on the couch, laying out some paperwork, and you go to the kitchen. You make coffee, because it keeps your hands busy. You make coffee, because Dina accepted your offer, and you'd put your hand on Santana's forearm, when she'd moved to stand first. You make coffee, because it's always a go-to for you. When it's finished, you pour three cups. You put them on a tray, cream, sugar, cookies, all there with them, and you set it down, before finding your place next to Santana. You find your place, and her hand, it finds yours, immediately. Her eyes, they flicker, they flicker with a whole mix of emotions. And you squeeze her hand, you squeeze it tight.

"Do you need anything else, Dina? Water? Juice? Did. Do. Do you want me to make you a sandwich? I made chicken salad earlier. And. There's plenty left."

No thank you, Brittany. The coffee and cookies are great.

She makes the best. Santana, she beams at you, and you feel the tips of your ears burn. Burn hot.

Well, you might need a lot of it…baby on your hands. You nod to Santana that you got the gist of what she'd said, and, at the words, you feel such a bloom inside of you. You think of what your mom used to say, a long time ago, before, when you'd wanted to do something and she couldn't commit to a yes, a strong maybe. And you hope, you hope maybe that's what Dina is telling you. Because you got this far, and—

"We're. We're used to odd hours." You manage, hating how your words are getting stuck in your throat.

Yes, Santana's job…for them. Dina purses her lips, and you think, she's the hardest person to read, both her lips, and her entire persona. So today…going to…tour of your house…neighborhood. Check…safety.

We're happy to show you around. Santana, she keeps checking with you, because you'd told her, how hard it is for you to understand sometimes, maybe because you just, you spend so little time around strangers, and you keep nodding that you're okay, though she signs her own words anyway. She signs her own words. Even though the speed at which she speaks to you, it's become mostly her natural cadence.

"It really. Feels like home for us now. After almost a year."

When Dina finishes her coffee, you stand first. You just. You feel like you need to lead the way, and. Santana is happy to follow you. Watching Dina with her clipboard. You start upstairs. You show her the kitchen. With all the safety locks, the ones Santana is still struggling to figure out and that you. You sat with on Monday morning while she was at work, learning. Santana tells her you've measured everywhere for gates, especially at the top of the stairs. You go through the rooms, your bedroom, your bathroom. Neat. Safe. Secure. And you hold your breath when you go into the empty bedroom. It's. It's strangely hard. While you're waiting for it to be filled. It's sunny and bright and cozy, so cozy. A place for a little child to grow up. And it makes a lump in your throat. It makes Santana graze her hand over your lower back, because she feels the same.

You show her the alcove, and the tiny closet, where you'll lock your paints away. Dina, she asks. She asks about guns. Which Santana tells her you don't have. That you'll never have. She asks about any standing water and. And you shudder. Because. Because you're not sure you'll be able to stomach having so much as a baby pool out on the patio. And. And you and Santana, you've been. Been talking a lot about bathing. Bathing a baby. About you, getting more used to taking them on your own, because, you think it might help you. To prepare. To not be so afraid. Because they only fit in those tiny tubs for so long, and, you. You don't know. You might have a baby come into your family who's already grown out of it. Santana presses her hand into your side then. And she tells Dina, water safety is important to you. And she gives you a minute to collect yourself. Talking about tub thermometers, you think, you're not totally watching her. But you know there's already one in your bathroom cabinet, just in case.

Santana takes over leading, at your silent request. She shows Dina her mom's room. She tells her. She tells her again that her mom is only forty-seven. Because you don't have a lot of people, and, and. You want her to know that. That Maribel will still be young, even when a baby born right now turns eighteen. In case, in case. And you want her to know that you'll have help, when you need it. From someone who knows how to love a child in the deepest way. For someone whose whole life went to raising your wife. You head into the backyard, and Santana demonstrates the locks, on the door, on the gate to the street. She tells her about your garden. And you smile, your nerves, simmering back down, when your wife beams at you, telling Dina about all the things you'd made from your garden over the summer. About the pie pumpkins, that are almost ready now. You picture it. You picture it again, because Santana has said it once. About learning to make baby food, with you. About. About a little one. With dirty hands, helping you out. And Santana, she gives you a knowing look.

You're exhausted, when Dina leaves. Her paperwork, her clipboard, all packed up, and you don't know what's on it. You know that Santana, she's tired too. Neither of you had really slept, last night. Tossing. Turning. Nervous about this whole thing. And all day, you've been running on adrenaline, and now. Now it's over, and you just. Collapse onto the couch, and melt into the cushions. Santana isn't long to follow you. Her body, curling into yours, all of the rigidness of being her public self softening the moment her head tucks itself under your chin. Otis, he looks for permission to come up with you too, and you grant it, letting him lay his head in your lap. Watching. Watching as Santana absently scratches his ears, while you scratch her side. You just. You need this, this moment. Just them. To decompress from all of what your day was.

"I. I think it was good." You say, after a long while. At the sound of your voice, she brings herself out from the blissful reverie that she's fallen into, and pulls her legs up beneath her on the couch. Turning her whole body to you. She knows. She knows it's easier for you to talk to each other like that. And, you follow suit, sitting across from her, knees bumping. "What do you think?"

I think. Santana, she taps her head, and you wonder. You wonder if she notices the way she always raises her eyebrows. The way her lips, they always curl up, just, in the slightest way, whenever she signs that. It's really. There's something just, so adorable about that, you don't know why. She likes us. And I think you're right, it was good.

"We're very safe. And. And I think she can see that we're really happy. Together. In our home."

I would say anyone could see that. If she listens to my show, she knows for sure.

"Because you tell all of Philadelphia that you love me." You laugh, you laugh a lot, because your wife. She's. She's kind of a goof. The sweetest kind of goof.

Important news, Britt. It's my duty to report the facts.

"If you say so." Her eyes, they crinkle, her dimples, they pop out. And she's relaxed, so relaxed, in a way you feel like you haven't seen her in months. In a way neither of you have felt in months. But it's over. You can't stress about what you need to do. Not right now. It's over and done, and now, now there's nothing you can do but wait. Wait. Wait for a decision. If it's a good one, wait for…wait for your child. Yours and hers. A little Lopez.

What are you thinking about? She brushes her thumb over the creases on your forehead, and you realize. You realize you zoned out a little.

"Just. All the things."

That's a lot of things, Sweetheart. The fire in her eyes, it dances, and you. You suck your lips into your mouth. She knows, she knows. She's just. Being silly. I'm glad it's good things.

"The best things." You lean in. You kiss her lips. You feel her hand press against the side of your face. Her thumb, stroking beneath your earlobe. That— that most intimate place she touches you. "I was thinking. About preparing, and— I mean, not until after we get a decision. But, I think. We should start then, looking at things. Even though it could be awhile before we even, I mean—"

Hey, take your time. Santana encourages, as you start tripping over your words. Over your great big thoughts. Just me.

"I. Okay." You breathe. You breathe in so deeply, and your eyelids flutter close, just for a few seconds. "Remember in the beginning. When Dina said that it could take a long time. But, when it happens, it could happen really fast?"

I do. She nods, taking the opportunity to rub her palms up and down your arms.

"So. So I was thinking. I don't want us. To have to rush. You know? We've been, not jinxing things. But, if you're okay with it. I think. I think maybe we should start looking at baby things. Like. A pediatrician, and, I don't know, the safest car seats and strollers, and the best diapers. Not, buying anything. But. Maybe. Maybe we start making lists? So. So we have the ideas ready." You know the creases in your brows are deeper than usual. But there's just. There's so much to think about, and. You're a planner. You know that there's a lot you won't be able to plan. If. When. You have a child. The things you can though, you just want to get started on them. "Do you think that's a bad idea? Do you think—- it's setting us up for disappointment?"

No. No I don't. You and I, we've both been patient, for a lot of things, our whole life. And our patience, it brought us each other. It brought us this life we have now. If we're patient just a little longer, it's going to bring us a child too. I don't— She pauses, and she searches you with her eyes. The deep brown of hers, smoldering, almost. I don't pray. You know that. My mom didn't either, even though she accepted a lot of church charity when I was a kid. But, she taught me about hope, and about visualization. So every night before I fall asleep, I close my eyes, and the thing I visualize, it's you. It's you, sitting on that swing out back with someone small in your arms. They don't have a face or a name or a personality yet, in my head, but they're definitely ours. That's what I fall asleep to every night, watching you, rocking our child to sleep, on a summer night, at dusk, crickets in the garden, the smell of your tomato plants. And I love you more, for something that hasn't even happened yet. I can't even explain that, except that I know it's real, even if it's a few years off.

"Three and a half years, and you still—" You choke back the tears that gather in the back of your throat. Because this woman. She's just. Something else entirely. "You still get me with those love words, Santana."

You use your share of them too. She combs your bangs from your forehead. And her whole face. It scrunches up. And I think you're right. I think, setting some plans in place is a good idea. Some people have a whole pregnancy to prepare for their child, but we'll have this. This waiting period. To figure things out, to spend special time, just the two of us, because it won't always be just us.

"It won't." You chew your bottom lip a little, before Santana uses her thumb to ease it free of your trap. "So now. We just. We wait."

We wait, and we hope, and we visualize. Because I think, I really think, it's all so close to being real.