Two weeks pass before you're able to go up and see your mom. She calls you even more than she normally does, preparing for your visit. You feel bad, because it's been awhile. But she understands. She understands you're wrapped up in new love. And she can't wait to meet this girl who's stolen her only child's heart. She can't wait, and you can't wait either. You're bubbling, really, your two favorite people. Your mom and your girlfriend, they're finally going to meet, and it has those butterflies in your stomach all kinds of riled up again.
Things have been better with Brittany, you think. True to her word, she's trying. She's communicating with you. She's telling you when things are too much, or when she needs a night alone to just sort out her head. And you're falling, deeper, deeper in love with her. You didn't think it was possible, but when she looks at you sometimes, it's just, some kind of amazing. Especially because it's cuddle weather now, earlier than you thought it would come, but it's here, and when you're not spending the evenings watching her paint in some kind of frenzy, because she's still behind schedule, you've got her in your arms. You're holding her while you watch a movie, you're kissing her, or you're pinned beneath her as she explores your body, because there's nothing better than body heat to combat the nip of early fall.
You think she's excited about going to Queens. You've been talking about it a lot. You've discussed it, and you decided to stay overnight. You and Brittany on your mom's pullout couch. Otis finding a spot there too. Them, fitting into another part of your life. Them, in the place where you came from. So you pack, throwing jeans and sweaters and pajamas and extra socks, because your mom's apartment is always a little cold, in a duffle bag. You answer Brittany's photo texts with pictures of clothes, and you tell her she doesn't need to bring anything fancy. Your mom, she's going to be impressed with Brittany as she is. She's going to embrace her, and cook for her, and just, treat her like her own. What she packs, it doesn't really matter, but, you know Brittany, and you know orderly things like this soothe her. So you help her pick out clothes from across town, and you just smile to yourself, thinking of your amazing girl.
She's not in a frenzy when you pick her up. You're so, so relieved about that, it's indescribable. She just comes downstairs, Otis at her side and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Otis' things, they're already in your trunk, you'd picked them up last night, and you'd maybe, maybe bought him a new stuffed dragon for the car ride. Brittany, she accuses you, with a smile, of spoiling him. But you can't help yourself. He takes care of Brittany, he makes her feel safer, and, for that reason, you think he's more deserving than anyone in the world of special treats.
"Are you ready for this?" You stand across from her on the sidewalk, once Otis and her things are loaded into the car. You just swing your hands between your bodies, and you look deep in her eyes.
"I am." She nods, slow, but sure. She's been preparing so much inside, you know, even more than the packing and the talking to you about it. You love her, this wonderful girl, you love her so much, and you just, lean in to kiss her lips.
"She's gonna love you, Britt."
"I hope so." You see it, you see the way the corners of her lips curl up in a tiny shy smile, before she sucks them into her mouth. Like she doesn't want to be too hopeful, but, it's there. That little hope, that little faith that someone as important to you as your mother is going to see how truly special she is.
You feel Brittany's eyes on you as you drive. She likes to watch you, and you love that feeling. You're not sure why, but, there's just something about the two of you in the car together, her palm upturned on your thigh, so you can draw letters there. Something good. Something truly amazing. You've done this drive so many times, this drive back to where you come from, but now, now it feels really different. Now, you're bringing Brittany with you, and, you think, of all the people you've known in your life, you've never, ever revealed to any where you've come from. The thing is, you're not ashamed of your childhood, of your past. On the contrary, you're proud of yourself, you're proud of your mom, even more, for what she's given you. But, there's just never been a person who you wanted to know you like this, not until Brittany. Because Brittany, she's different. Brittany, you think, maybe, as new as this is, she could really be your forever. And it doesn't scare you, not even in the slightest.
As you get closer, closer to the city, you feel the butterflies slowly awaken in your stomach. It's strange to you, the way it always happens when you go home, back to the place your mother worked so hard to get you out of, but now, it's more. Now, they're good butterflies, because, Brittany, your Brittany, she's learning you. Slowly, slowly, you're opening yourself up. You'd told her, with limbs twisted under her covers one night, how your mom had you when she was sixteen, how you'd never known a father, because her boyfriend, he'd wanted nothing to do with you, or her, if she kept you. And that meant for her, he was gone forever. You'd told her, in the park one afternoon, while she took a break from painting the changing leaves and had a streak of orange on her chin, how you'd only met your grandparents once, in Key Foods, nine years after they'd thrown her out of their house just for getting pregnant— or really, just for throwing away the future they'd planned for her. You'd told her, lying with your head in her lap on your couch as she played with your hair, how you'd line up at the church every August so you could get "new" clothes for the school year from the donation box. You'd told her, sharing a sticky bun at Kermit's, how the day you got your acceptance letter and full scholarship to UPenn, on what seemed like a fluke, though you were the Valedictorian of your class, your mom cried. Because all the long hours and sore feet and sacrifices had been worth it, you'd made it out, you'd been the one who'd done what she'd failed to do. Slowly, slowly, you've been revealing your most precious secrets. Because, like you'd told Brittany, relationships are based on faith and trust, and you trust her to keep safe the things you hold so close to your heart.
Brittany stops looking at you, just for a little while, once you reach Staten Island. She'd told you last week that she hadn't been to New York since she was really young, and it's one of those things that make you twist inside. It's one of those things that remind you of what she'd said about her mom complaining they couldn't go on vacations anymore. It's one of those things that make you ache inside, because New York City is barely two and a half hours by car. It's one of those things that make you burn, because they'd othered Brittany, when there was no reason for her to be othered. But, then you think, as you watch her out of the corner of your eye, an almost childlike wonder spreading across her face, that those things they denied her? You get to give them back. You get to share them with her. You get to remind her, every day of her life, of the amazing things in the world, and the amazing things she brings to it. You can't change her past, you can't change your own, but you have the future, this whole beautiful future spread out in front of you, and you love how much the two of you, together, make the most of every single day.
Brooklyn and Queens, they're not as picturesque as the view of Manhattan from the bridge, but Brittany, she remains enthralled, and you realize, maybe it has more to do with it being where you come from than this Hollywood idea of the city.
There's traffic, there's always traffic in Queens, and while you mutter curses under your breath on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, Brittany squeezes your thigh. You're getting close, she knows you're getting close, and you draw a heart on the back of her hand before you cover it completely with yours. You take her along the back roads. You take her through Corona, where you grew up. You take her past Meadow Brook, the housing project where you and your mom lived for the first sixteen years of your life. Past the parks you played in. Past the deli you worked in after school. You don't point out, specifically, what these places are. But, you she knows. You'd told her names, when you were slowly unravelling your past. And you think, even if you hadn't, she'd be able to tell by the way you slow down a little and look out the window, not nostalgic, but, just, reflective, like you are whenever you drive through here. You make it, finally, to the quiet street in East Flushing where your mom rents a little one-bedroom on the first floor of a private house. It's different from where you grew up, for sure. It's a safer neighborhood, and you think, you sleep better at night, knowing she's alone in a place like this, where her landlady has your number and she can walk home from the bus without worry if she works late. Brittany takes it in as you find parking, and your butterflies, they're getting restless. They know you're five minutes away from one of your big life moments. They know, they know, this is a huge deal for you.
You have to walk a bit, and you insist on taking Brittany's bag while she grabs Otis and his things— something that earns you a sweet kiss. She looks around some more as your clasped hands swing between you, and you watch her, you watch her, and you just feel full, really. It's the only way to describe it. It's why you tell her your special things, it's why she learns what no one else has ever known before. Because she cares, she cares so much, and she makes it hers, too. You love that, you love that, maybe more than anything, this sharing of your lives, this partnership that's growing, growing, every single day. You reach the red door that's grown familiar to you in the nearly ten years that your mom has lived here, the ten years you've been gone, and you turn to Brittany, letting her know, without words, that you're here.
"Okay." She sucks in a deep breath and then looks down to Otis. "Okay, buddy, let's meet Santana's mom."
Rather than turn the keys in the lock like you normally would, you knock on the door. It feels right. You don't know why, but, it feels right to knock and have her open the door. Your mom, she won't care, she still calls this place home for you, even though you never lived here, and walking in with Brittany would be totally normal. But, you're sure Brittany will be more comfortable with being introduced on the doorstep, with being invited inside. It's the little things. Those little quirks you both have, that you both start to pick up on, that makes things easier. You keep her hand tightly in yours, fingers interlocked, while you wait for your mother to come and get you.
"Baby girl." She opens the door, all dressed up and wearing the perfume she gets from the guy on Canal Street, the kind she used to wear to interviews when you were a kid, you notice. Making an impression. You love your mom. You love her so much. You love her even more for this, because meeting your girlfriend, she feels like it's an occasion worthy of dressing up for.
"Mama." You grin. The butterflies, they must be multiplying. You think they might lift you right off the ground, what with the way your mother is smiling. Smiling at you. Smiling at Brittany. Even smiling at Otis. "Mama, this is Brittany."
"Brittany. It's so nice to meet you." She speaks a little slower than her normal rapid-fire pace, but, not in an obnoxious way, not in a patronizing way. You just want to hug her, really. "Santana has told me so much about you."
"She's told me a lot about you too, Ms. Lopez." Brittany's cheeks are bright red. She embarrasses easily, but she's smiling, and you think, she's not searching for her shell. She's just getting used to this. "Thank you for having me."
"Oh, honey, no Ms. Lopez, please. Call me Maribel. And anyone who makes my girl happy is always, always invited here." She opens her arms a little, not forcing a hug from her, but, inviting her, if she wants. Brittany complies, a little awkwardly, but, she hugs your mother, and it's just, you can't believe how much that means to you. When they pull apart, your mother looks down at Otis, and extends her hand so he can smell it. "I've heard a lot about you too, sir."
"Ms.—Maribel. You're sure it's okay for him to be here, right, I don't want. I don't want to impose on you—" Brittany stutters over her words a little, and you find her hand again, rubbing your thumb on the pulse point of her wrist.
"Don't be silly, of course he's welcome. Come on inside, you must be hungry from the ride. Let me make you lunch."
You tease your mom, a little, about forgetting about you, and she rolls her eyes, before kissing both of your cheeks and pulling you in for a tight hug. She murmurs in your ear that she thinks Brittany's a sweetheart. You can't help the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You know it's true. But hearing your mom say it. Everyone seeks their mother's approval, in some way. And yours, it's always been easy to get, she's always been so proud of you. But still. She likes Brittany already, and she's barely even spoken to her. Once she gets to know her more, you're pretty sure she actually might replace you in favor of your amazing girlfriend.
"Santana, look at you." Brittany points to the faded picture of you that your mom has always kept hung on the wall, no matter where you lived. She doesn't have a ton of photos of you, but in this one, you're maybe two, and you're grinning with all the teeth you have. Brittany, she pokes one of your cheeks, and she laughs. "You still have those cute chipmunk cheeks. And those big baby dimples."
"And this is why I still have to show ID everywhere we go." You laugh in return, watching those universe eyes of her dance as they look at little you. Between that one, and one of you asleep on your mom's chest in the hospital. The picture a nurse took for her. You and your mom, it's always been just the two of you. And that's why this is bigger than Brittany knows, being here with you. That's what you're trying to make her understand. That's why the world doesn't matter to you, because it never has before. Not to you, not to your mom. Together, you both built all you have, and the world did you no favors.
"You still sleep like this." She notices the way your tiny hand is beneath your head, completely passed out.
"Like the dead." Your mom comes back in, a tray of bologna sandwiches in hand. She still makes them for you when you come home, it's the only time you eat them. And Brittany, she tells you it's cute. Brittany, she tells your mom she'd be glad to have one too, if she doesn't mind. You fall a little more in love, from that. And you wonder, you wonder if this is a bottomless pit. You wonder if there's any limit to just how deep you can fall. "Are you girls ready to eat now?"
"Yeah, totally," you start to say, but then Brittany shakes her head.
"I. Um. I just. I wanted to bring you a gift, to thank you. And, I wasn't sure what kind of things you liked, really." She slips her hand from yours, and you watch her, you watch her with awe as she goes over to her bag and unzips it. She pulls out a rolled paper, and you just, you grab the back of the couch to balance yourself. Because sometimes, sometimes she's just too much. "Santana, she tells me stories about the beach. How after you'd finished working, the man at the store would give her a Popsicle, and you'd go play together at the beach until it was time to take the ferry back. And. If you don't like it, it's okay, I won't be offended at all. But, I painted this for you, because I couldn't think of anything else to bring you."
"Brittany." Your mom takes the roll from her hands, and she looks at you. She looks at you, and your jaw is kind of dropped, you think. She looks at you, and she has that same look of amazement on her face that you're sure you do. She looks at you as she unrolls the painting, and then, you both look down. You gasp, when you see it. Brittany's watercolors, they're always abstract, and this one is no different. But, there's no doubt what this painting is. It's you. It's little you, red Popsicle stained hands. Little you, in the sand, the big wide ocean behind you, and you have to bring your hand up to wipe the tears that are about to fall. Because Brittany, she painted this for your mom. Brittany, she heard one of your most special things, and she put it to paper. For your mom, who gave you those things, when you both had very little else.
"Britt." Your voice cracks, and you look at your mom. She's crying. Not even trying to hide it. And there are very, very few times you ever remember her doing that. Very few times you've ever seen her open herself up. And then, then what she does, it's just too much. She brings her hand to her chin, and then down again towards Brittany. She thanks her. In sign language. Your mother, who didn't teach you to speak Spanish when you were growing up, because she was afraid people would hear her accent in you and pass you over for opportunities. She's learned at least one word. For Brittany, because she knows how much that matters to you.
"You're welcome." Brittany manages, though you know she has to be having a hard time keeping herself together. "I hope. I hope that you like it."
"Brittany. In all the summers Santana and I spent over there, I don't think I have any pictures of her on the beach. I went there to work, to clean for the people on vacation, so it wasn't a vacation for us. But still, it was the best part of our year. So thank you for this, this means more to me than you know."
"Britt." You say it again. Because she didn't know, she couldn't have known, but, how happy she made your mom is probably the greatest thing any person has ever done for you. You, just, you look at her, you hope she can see it, what she's done, just by being her. You open your arms and step toward her. She looks a little at your mom, blushy, unsure, and she laughs, nudging her toward you. You take her in your arms, and you hold her so tightly, trying to make her feel your gratitude. When you pull back, you look at her, and you're still a little teary eyed. "It's a really beautiful painting."
"Well, I had a beautiful subject, even if little you was mostly in my imagination."
"You certainly got it." Your mom barely tears her eyes away from her gift. "Right down to the messy hands."
"I figured, she still eats ice pops like that."
"No I don't." You protest, and she raises an eyebrow at you, and looks at your mom, who nods. "Oh, I see how it is, totally outnumbered. That's fine, I'll just come over here and hang out with my friend Otis."
The rest of the day, it goes like that. Your mom, she tells Brittany stories about you, she asks her questions about her art, her life. She shows her the signs she learned. Just a few, but, you see the way Brittany's eyes sparkle with each one. This, this is your mom fully accepting the woman you love into your family. You know she would be welcoming, but this is more than just welcoming, this is so much more. You're overwhelmed by it, really, and after you insist on taking the two of them out to dinner, because it's one of the few things your mom lets you do for her, she tells you she's heading to bed for the night. She's kisses both of your cheeks again. She tells you in your ear she adores Brittany. Then she hugs her, and she signs goodnight. She leaves you in the living room, just you, Brittany and Otis, and you see it, you see that Brittany, she's just as overwhelmed as you. Probably even more.
"Hi." She nuzzles her nose against yours as you're pulling out the couch, and she settles her hands on your hips.
"Hey." You kiss her, and you kiss her again. You draw it out. Because you haven't really kissed her all day, and you miss the feeling of her lips on yours. "How are you doing?"
"Good. I'm really good." Brittany takes one end of the sheet, and she helps you spread it over the mattress. She's calm. She's happy. Otis has found his own little corner of the room. And it's just the two of you, really. When she's open and honest. When she'll tell you if today was too much. "I really like your mom. She's not. She's not what I expected at all."
"You didn't expect to like her?"
"No. No it's not that." She shakes her head quickly, and she wrinkles her nose and squints her eyes a little. She does that when she gathers her thoughts sometimes, and you don't rush her. "I just— you've told me these stories about her, and, I didn't expect her to be so sweet and gentle."
"What, because of the elbow story?" You ask her, reminded that you'd told her that she'd once broken a guy's nose with her elbow for checking out your newly developed body on the bus. You were eleven. You were her baby. You think he's probably lucky he got away with just a broken nose.
"Not, not just that. I mean. She raised you all alone, and, I see you when you get feisty and mad. I guess I just figured maybe she'd want to protect you from me or something."
"Hey, Britt, come sit with me." You take her hands, and you sit with your legs tucked beneath you on the pullout. She sits across from you, and you look at her. She knows a lot, but there's so much you still have to tell. So much that you still, you just, you've been waiting for the right time. Because you don't want pity. You and your mom, you never have, and Brittany, she has that in common with you. "You saw where I lived, right? When we were driving?" You ask her, and she nods, slowly. "That's nice compared to what it was twenty years ago. Ten years ago, even. When I was in college, I remember people used to talk about their families being poor. I went to an Ivy League school. When they said poor, almost all of them, they meant upper middle class. My mother, she had me, and she was just a kid herself. She had no help, no one. Not a single friend in this whole city that stood by her. My, sperm donor, whatever, shithead guy that knocked her up and left her, I don't even know his name, because I don't want to. My mom was my mother, my father, my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my everything. That was it. Her and I. Until I was twelve, she couldn't get hired for a full time job, because she wouldn't leave me alone, even for a few hours after school. She'd heard so many horrible stories, and she didn't want me to get hurt. And no one wanted a kid hanging around while she was trying to do a job, so she worked mostly odd jobs, one day at a time. We weren't poor like, can't afford new sneakers poor. We lived on food stamps, and church charity, and whatever part time jobs she could get. We had nothing. Britt, that picture of me you painted for her, it was seriously the best thing you could have given to her. She didn't have a camera when I was a kid. Most of the pictures she really has of me are, like, the samples of the ones they would take in school that the teachers would slip home in an envelope for her, even though they were supposed to get thrown out."
"I, I didn't know that. I just, wanted to paint something for her."
"I know." You swallow back your tears. For more than two decades, you didn't talk about this. And now. Now you're here, with Brittany. Filling in her blanks. "And that makes it even better. Because you did it just because you're you. Not because you were trying to, I don't know, like, feel bad for us or something. I got made fun of all the time in school. I was scrawny and my clothes didn't fit. I got free lunch. I had the same backpack for all of elementary school and most of high school. I used to sit in the library after school, because they had a program, and then my mom could work if she could find something. I'd read all these books, and I'd learn all I could, because my mom, she told me that was the most important thing. That I learn, that I go to college, that I have this piece of paper that told people they should hire me. Because she didn't even graduate high school, and she wanted so much more for me."
"It's stupid." She shakes her head and you just, pull your lips into your mouth, because you understand what she's trying to say.
"I know. And I know it's not like that for everyone, but, my mom, I guess, had some shitty luck or something. She taught me though, that I needed to be as big as I could be. That I needed to close my ears to anything and everything anyone said about me, and I needed to do better than all the bad words. So I did. I kept my head in a book, and I studied, because I wanted to get a better life for us both. I just, I've spent my life with people talking behind my back, and I don't talk about it now, because I don't want to even give them the power of my memories, I don't care what they said, or anything. It doesn't get in my head, because they're wrong. I didn't sleep with my History teacher my senior year to get him to pay my application fees for college. I worked in the deli for twelve hours a day every weekend, and studied for my SATs when there were no customers. My mom's not a slut because she got pregnant at sixteen. She's brave and she's strong, because she raised me alone. And you, you're not stupid or worthless, just because you can't hear the inanity of people around you, or because your brain works a little slower than other people's. You're a gifted artist, and you just, you prove that you don't have to conform to what other people think is normal to be special."
"Santana." She touches your face, and her eyes, her universe eyes, they sparkle.
"My mom, she doesn't see you as a threat, because she sees you as one of us. We're fighters, and she knows you're one too. She's sweet and gentle with you, because she knows kindness is hard to find in the world, and she alway taught me, raise your hackles when you feel like you're threatened, but let them down when the threat is gone. You've lowered them, for both of us, I think. And after twenty-seven years of my life, you, Brittany Pierce, are the first person my mom has accepted without question into this family."
"Really?"
"Really, really. I wanted you to come here, to see this, because, it's who I am. It's what no one who listens to my radio show knows about me. It's what Marcus and Patty and even Charlie don't know. It's what makes me who I am, and, I thought, I don't know…"
"That if I understood you more, I'd stop hiding in my turtle shell." She finishes your sentence, and you just, shrug a little. "I love that you shared this with me, because I love you, and want to know your everything. But, just so you know, Santana, it's getting a little easier, even without this."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I feel like I know your heart. And, I. I know it more every day. That makes it feel, like, I don't know. Faith and trust just, they're starting to come naturally." She taps her pointer to her head, and then brings it down in a closed fist on top of her other. Faith and trust, they're the same sign, and you take a deep breath.
"Good." You smile. Its a big, wide smile, and you lean over to kiss her. "That's really, really good."
"And Santana?" She looks at you, she looks into you, like she does sometimes, and she presses her finger into your dimple. "I think, that you're just, you're amazing. I've always thought it, but, seeing this, having you tell me these things. You're even more. And I am so, so proud of you, for all the things you did, long before I ever knew you."