The winter, it's cold and dry. You only have one big snow. And on a weekend. So Santana, she's home with you for that. Most of your time, in the cold months, you spend painting. Furiously painting, really. Because the deadline on the first book of the new series you'd signed for. It gives you much less time than you've ever given yourself. But. You're trying to do as much as possible now. Because. Because when, when things progress with your adoption. When there's a baby, for you and Santana, you want to be able to slow down a little. To just. Have less on your plate. While you learn to be a mom. Because that plate, it seems pretty full on its own. So. You'll work in a frenzy now. You'll paint in the middle of the night. Anything, to have at least this one project out of the way.

It's the beginning of April, when you finish, just a few days shy of the deadline. Santana, she loves the art. She always does. But this one, it feels different. The series, it's about a boy and his journeys through the magical forest behind his house. And she tells you, maybe a magic forest in that empty bedroom would be something that would work. That maybe, if you wanted to do some kind of mural, like your book pages, on the walls, she'd like that. It's weird for you, this feeling. You've been painting children's books for so long. But now. Now that you might bring them to life for your own future child. It's a different thing entirely.

You're anxious, waiting to present to the author, one of those meetings you hate, where a translator has to sign nearly everything to you, because it turns out, authors don't look at you. As if your deafness is catching. But it all goes well. He loves your artwork, he says you brought his vision to life. And as you always do for either of your successes, you and Santana, you celebrate with a nice dinner. With champagne. With kisses. With lovemaking. Just you and her. It's all the celebration you need.

At the end of the month, Maribel has a surgery scheduled. Santana has been a nervous wreck, ever since her mother called and said she needed to have an ovarian cyst removed. She's been trying to hide it. But. She's not very good at it, and. You know. You know. This is hard for her. It's impossibly hard. And you're just trying, trying as hard as you can, to do whatever you can to make it easier. So you pack. You pack her things, you pack yours. And while she's at work, the day you're leaving to stay in Queens, until she recovers- only a few days, Maribel had told your wife, something you find her saying and wringing her hands, on more than one occasion- you clean the house, top to bottom. You go to the grocery store, figuring, you can pack a cooler. With groceries. To cook the things your mother-in-law likes. Since it's the only thing you can think to do to help, besides be there to comfort and support your wife.

Santana comes home from work in a frenzy. You can't settle her. She's snappy. You can tell by her facial expressions. Though not intentionally at you, you know that. She's snappy, because she's anxious. She doesn't feel prepared for this. And she looks like she might burst into tears at any given moment. Her mom, she's larger than life to Santana. She's never seen her sick, so the idea of her in a hospital, even for an outpatient surgery. It just freaks her out. But once you can get her to stop pacing, you take her- you take her into your arms. You hold her tight. And you promise her, promise her, everything will be just fine. The two of you, you'll be there to help Maribel with her recovery. And you. You'll be there to hold Santana at night, because you know that's when she'll need it most.

While you double check everything, Santana begins to load the car. She kisses you, soft and sweet, when she sees the cooler full of groceries. Some of her tension, just a little, it melts away. Because she hadn't even thought of it, but it's done. One of those things that partnership is about- like making each other's dreams come true, making each other happy- is that, knowing the tasks your wife will think of, before she even does. She's jittery while she drives. Even your hand on her thigh drawing hearts, like she usually does for you, doesn't calm her. She bangs her fists on the steering wheel in traffic. She just. Wants to be with her mom. You get that. Not from your own experience, but from being with her as long as you've been. And you wish. You wish, there was something, anything, you could do to help her not feel so afraid. Especially, especially because she's so good at doing that for you.

"It's okay, Santana." You say it, while you sit in traffic on the turnpike. You don't tell her it's just routine surgery. You never would. She knows that. But that doesn't make it less scary. She knows that. She doesn't need you to say it. She just needs to hear you tell her you're here. With her. Always. "And I'm here, through all of it. I promise."

Maribel is in great spirits when you get to her house. She tells Santana to stop worrying so much. She tells her. She tells her to stop walking around looking like she's going to cry. But, she also hugs her tight. And she hugs you tight, too. She thanks you for shopping. She tells you she can't wait for your baked chicken and macaroni and cheese, once she's home again- her favorite, favorite, you know. Because just like Santana, she likes simple meals. Santana's still pacing, though she's stopped looking like she's going to cry. Her mom, she goes to bed early, since she says she's hungry, and having to fast, it's better for her just to go to sleep. Once she's closed the bedroom door, you take Santana's hand. She's so full of nervous energy, you know being shut up in the house might make her explode.

So you lead her outside. You wrap your arm around her waist, and she leans her weight on you. Otis, he sticks closer than ever to your side. He always does, in Queens. He's not sure of the environment, and, he wants to make sure you're safe. Santana, she plays with your hair while you walk. She can't keep her hands still, and you don't restrict them. You just. Let her do what she needs to do. But you're there. You're there, you're there. While you walk. When she crawls onto that pullout couch beside you, and buries her head in your chest. When she cries, scary, wracking sobs. Because she's filled herself with fear. You hold her. You soothe her, best as you can. And when she falls asleep, spent, you set her alarm for her. Because tomorrow, it's going to be a long day.

It's rainy and cold in the early morning. She wears jeans and your Phillies sweatshirt. For her to be wearing that, in Mets territory, you know she's all jumbled up inside. You worry, a little, about her driving like that. Eyes a little swollen. But you know she wouldn't. Not if she thought she would be a danger. You give Maribel the front, and you sit in the back with Otis. You watch Santana, in the rearview mirror. You watch her, eyes planted on the road ahead, as she drives to LIJ Hospital. You see Maribel give up talking to her after awhile, because she doesn't respond. Your heart, it breaks for your wife. She's normally so collected. And now, she's worked herself into such a knot. A knot you wish you could untangle her from. When you get to the hospital, you walk inside with Maribel. Santana, she goes to park the car, and you can tell, she wants a little while alone. So you go with her mom. You find seats in the waiting room, while she checks in, and when she's finished. She sits down beside you. She scratches Otis' ears, and she turns her body to face you.

I almost didn't tell her. Maribel confesses to you. She hasn't gotten like this in a long time.

"I've. I've never seen her upset. Not like this."

When she was young, she had nightmares about me dying. She woke up screaming so many nights.

"I understand. That feeling. You were her only person. And she loves you. More than I've ever seen anyone love their mom."

I had my appendix out her second year of college.

"I know." You have to smile a little, because Santana had told you the story. How her mother had casually mentioned it, three weeks later, because she hadn't wanted her to miss her finals. "I'm glad you told her this time. She's worried. But, being here. It's important. To her. And to me too. You- you taught me more about family in these few years. Than I'd known in my whole life. And we're your family. We should take care of you when you're healing."

You're so good for her, Brittany. For us. She's told you it before. More than once. But still. Still. It fills you up. It was definitely easier to tell her, knowing you'll be with her the whole time. I get a hangnail and she worries. I'm young, I've got plenty of time left. And at least one grandchild to get to know.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Santana approaching, back stiff and chewing on her thumbnail. Maribel, she sees it in your eyes, you think. She can tell, just by looking at you, that Santana is there. And you look down a little. Sheepish, until she pats your forearm. Otis, he notices her presence too, and he moves, just a little, when she sits down, to place his head on her thigh, comforting her in his way. It doesn't take long before a nurse comes to bring Maribel into the back. Santana, you think she's going to try to go into the operating room, following them to just outside of the restricted area and firing questions at the nurse that you can't quite read on her lips. But her mother, she takes Santana into her arms one last time, she murmurs things, you're sure, into her hair. And once she's through the door, your wife comes back to you. She sits down at your side, coming as much into your space as she can, and you wrap your arms around her. You hold her tight, and you wait, you wait, until she wants to talk.

Thank you. She looks up from your chest, finally. Where she'd buried her face. She hadn't been crying, at least, but she has her thumbnail in her teeth again. She just looks. Wracked. It's the best word you can think of. I did so much research, and I know this is common and she's fine. It's like, centimeter incisions.

"Your mom is larger than life, I know. Santana, you don't have to be sorry. I would. I'd expect you to worry about her."

I know. But I've been snappy with you, and I'm never snappy with you.

"It's okay," you start. But. She shakes her head, and she presses a hand to your cheek. She just. Looks in your eyes, that way she does. Soft. Soft. So soft.

It's not. It's never okay for me to snap at you. You've been amazing, sweetheart. And I apologize for the way I've spoken to you.

"And I accept that. You're right, that you shouldn't. But. But I understand why. And I'm sorry this is so hard for you." You tell her, leaning in, brushing the softest kiss on her lips. "She'll be okay though. You know that, right?"

I do. But thank you for saying it, and for accepting my apology. And for all you've done this week. You take such good care of me, you're so special, and I love you. I love you so much.

"I love you." You smile at her, wishing you could rub away all the furrows in her brow. You watch her eyelids, heavy, flutter a little, and you choose to run your thumb beneath them instead. "I love taking care of you too. You're really tired."

I'm- she starts to say she's okay, you know, but before she even finishes, a yawn cuts her off. I didn't sleep much last night.

"I know. I'll share my shoulder with you. If. If you want to use it as a pillow." You see her reluctance to sleep, much as she needs it. And you give her another soft smile, you bring your hands up and down her arms. Just. Touching her. Soothing her. "The time will go faster if you do. And I'll wake you, if you need to be woken up."

Maybe I'll just close my eyes, for a few minutes, she concedes, and you shuffle your body, slipping your arm beneath the armrest so you can hold her by the waist, kissing the side of her head when she lays it down on you.

Her face, it's still wracked with worry, when she closes her eyes, but you watch. You watch it as her breathing evens out. You watch as it softens, when her closing her eyes turns into actual sleep. It's more than just last night, that she hadn't slept. You feel it, in bed at night. The way she tosses and turns. So you're glad, so glad that she's succumbed to her need for sleep. And you hope it will continue tonight, once Maribel is home in her own bed. Once she's medicated, and hopefully fed, if she's up for it. Because these women, your family, you want so badly to take care of them. To cook for them, and watch out for them. Because they've watched out for you. They've learned for you. They've accepted you one hundred percent into their family, long before you were Santana's wife. And watching her, as she sleeps against you, her breath blowing wisps of your hair. You think. You think about what's coming up. You think about the day you bring a child into your home. And you think, you think. You might be a small group. But the love, there's more of it than you've ever known. Your child, they'll be the luckiest of all.

Santana only sleeps for about an hour. She wakes up with a start, and gently, gently, you remind her where she is. When you offer to get her coffee, knowing- knowing she won't leave her spot, she accepts. You're glad you can do that for her, at least, and when you and Otis come back, two cups of coffee, and a strawberry Danish, her favorite, favorite. You catch a hint of crinkle eyes, when she smiles at you. She looks sleepy still. She looks stressed. But. Looking at you. You make her happy. So happy. Pressing the coffee into her hands, you kiss her forehead. You just. You love her. More than your heart can handle. And when she takes your hand and squeezes it, you're glad, so glad, that you get to be her moral support.

When the doctor comes out a little while later, Santana, soft and relaxed in your arms. Playing Scrabble on your phone. She stiffens. Her whole body, rigid and terrified. But it's okay, it's okay. Maribel's done. She's great. She's recovering, cyst free. And Santana, she holds fast to your arm, as you're brought back to where Maribel naps. When Santana sees her, she's silent at first. Just, grateful. And then. Then she cries so hard that she actually starts laughing at herself. Clinging to your side. An effort, you know, not to throw herself on her mother and hug her tight, because she's okay. She worried so much and she's okay.

It takes some time, but, they discharge her, and she leans on you, in the lobby, holding your hand, while Santana sprints across the parking lot to get the car. Most of the way back to her apartment, Maribel sleeps in the front seat, reclined all the way. And from behind Santana, where you sit, you squeeze her shoulder. She reaches back, and she takes your hand. Holding it, in a weird sort of way, but needing it in her own. The way you do, whenever your day is rough. Or really. Just. Always. Because it's always easier, when you're in it together. When you get back, it doesn't take you long for your mother-in-law to settle into bed. She says she feels fine, mostly, but she's got a lot of drugs in her system. Santana wraps her arms around your neck then. She sighs out her relief into your hair. And you hold up her tired weight.

Lay down with me? she asks you. You didn't sleep much either, and I just want to nap with you.

"You think that. That she'll be okay? If we do?" You try not to yawn, though you feel the exhaustion hitting you too. Now that you're back. Now that the pullout couch is right there, soft pillows waiting.

She'll be fine. Otis'll wake us if she calls, right, buddy? Santana scratches his head, and you smile at her. At them. She's already changed into flannel pants. But she still has your sweatshirt on. Engulfing her. She looks so warm that you slip into her arms, you breathe in her shampoo, and you feel yourself sigh as you look into her eyes. The fire, gentle, inviting. We'll make dinner together when we wake up. I see you worrying about that stuff.

"I do love cooking for you both." You shrug, a little, but you know, you know, you've lost the battle against sleep. You're melting, melting in your wife's arms, as she backs you toward the bed. "But I guess taking care of you now means cuddling."

It does. She sinks down, pulling you with her. You lie on your side, and she does too. And. And you don't close your eyes. You just. Lie there. Watching her eyelids flutter. Watching her get her dreamy smile on her face. So pretty, you know.

"Santana." You tuck your chin to your chest, and she tucks a lock of hair behind your ear. More unspoken wedding vows between you. To hold you when you're scared, to rest with you when you're tired. And what they all mean, combined. To love you, always. To be your rock, and to let you be mine. "Santana, Santana."

Brittany, my Brittany. She kisses your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips, and you close your eyes you drift into sleep, holding Santana in your arms.

The whole weekend, it brings you and your wife even closer. You think. You can't. You can't really explain it. It's just, something about being there together. Taking care of her mom. Something about when you go to bring Maribel a cup of tea, and instead of finding Santana sitting on the chair where she'd been, you find her. Curled into bed with her mom, her mama. Looking so young, so, just, adorable. And then. Then Maribel invites you too. Brittany. Join the party. She turns on the closed captioning on the television you and Santana had bought her for Christmas. And the three of you. You watch Runaway Bride together. Santana belly laughing, until her mother tells her to stop shaking the bed. You don't think it's that funny, but. She's so cute. Crinkle eyes. Dimples. Back to her old seIf, without the worry. So cute that you laugh too, and you kiss her face. Not shy. Not in front of Maribel. Not in front of the woman who treats you like a daughter. And who you treat like a mother.

By Monday morning, Maribel insists that she can walk to the deli with the two of you. Santana worries about it, but. But once she sees that she's perfectly capable. Once she knows that she'll be able to take care of herself. Then she knows that you're okay to go back to Philadelphia. You know, you know. She wishes her mother would just move there. But Maribel is young. She reminds Santana of that, gently. Because she knows your wife has her best interests at heart. She knows that she just wants to take care of her, in return- in return for the years that Maribel sacrificed for what was best for her baby girl, and her grown up girl. But. But she's happy in Queens. She has a good job, in a good office. She has friends. And she's not old enough to retire to her daughter's downstairs room in Pennsylvania. Much as she loves her. Heart and soul. Someday, maybe. Not now though. Now, she'll keep her life here, and, when she has a grandchild. Well, then she'll have to make more frequent trips than she already does.

You pack up the car. You insist. You want to give them a few minutes alone. Though Santana says there's nothing she has to talk about that you can't be a part of. You just, think it's good for her. So you take Otis, and you bring the suitcases out and load the trunk. You take the cooler. Filled now with pastelitos and baklava and the other foods she always brings back home. Foods you'd gone for yesterday afternoon, while Maribel took her pills and slept soundly. Because you have to agree. They are better. When they're made by the massive Greek man who lifts Santana up in a giant hug, who calls her something in Greek, words you can't understand, and neither can she, but, it's sweet. Or the Puerto Rican grandmother who kisses her cheeks whenever she sees her. She's like the sun. Your Santana. It's been more than a decade since she's lived in this place. But still. Still she keeps a place in these hearts. With that smile. That laugh. The one they hear. But you. You see. And though you'd love, maybe more than anything. To hear it too. You think, because you can't. You experience it in a way no one else ever will. You see it. Spread through her body. The eye crinkles, the dimples. Yes. But also. The way she leans in, just a little. The way her nostrils flare, and crunch her cheeks and nose. The way her teeth separate, and her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth. How her whole body vibrates with it, genuine. So you pack those things from the people she's charmed, and then, you go back inside. You embrace Maribel, careful of her healing incision. And she stands on her toes to kiss your forehead. Same as she does to Santana. And she thanks you. For cooking. For cleaning. For calming down your wife. And just. For being you. Something that gives you chills. Every time.

There's traffic again. On the way home, getting out of New York. Your timing this trip hasn't been the greatest. But it's okay this time. Santana doesn't look like she might murder anyone. Not like on the way up a rare glimpse at the side of your wife you forget exists. She's calm now. She holds your hand on her thigh. She takes the opportunity to look at you and talk, when you're in a dead stop on the Staten Island Expressway. She points things out when you're not. Things to remember, so you can talk about them later. When you hit New Jersey, it lightens up, and you're making good time, finally. You're about forty-five minutes from home, when you feel her phone vibrate, in her bag at your feet. On instinct, you reach down, and pull it out. You usually do, when you drive. Check it for her, in case it's an emergency. And this time. This time, when you do. Your heart squeezes in your chest. Your whole body prickles with heat. Because. It's nearly seven o'clock at night, and the name you see on the caller ID—

"Santana." You wonder if she can hear you. You wonder if your words have sound. But she turns her head, just a little to look at you. And you hold up the phone. Showing her the number. The name. You hold up the phone, and your hand shakes. Because you wonder. You wonder if— if she could be calling for the reason you hope for every day. The reason you've been waiting for since your home study was complete eight and a half months ago. The reason you've been waiting for even longer than that. It might not be. It might not be at all. It's been only eight and a half months. It's probably not. But still. Still your heart races. Still, you reach out and grip Santana's arm, needing to touch her. And she sees who it is. Her face changes when she does. The same flurry of emotions. Racing through her. Hoping, hoping. But afraid of those hopes getting too high. And you say it out loud, because you have to. Like if you do, it might be real.

"Santana. It's Dina."