It's early. You can tell it's early. When you wake, with a start. Santana. She's not in your arms, though. It's you, and Otis, curled up in her place. Your blink your eyes rapidly. And you look at the time on your wrist. Four-seventeen. Four-seventeen and Santana's already out of bed. You think for a minute, that she's going to work. But. Then, then you remember. Nuzzling Otis' head, you push yourself up, and you meander out into the kitchen. Her back is to you. She's standing over the sink, and there are soap bubbles up to her arms. She hears your presence, you think. Her body always, softens, maybe, when you enter a room. And it only takes a second, before she turns her head in your direction, giving you that soft morning smile. Tiny crinkles in her eyes. Just the slightest press of a dimple on her left cheek. She pushes her fallen hair from her face with her arm. Streaking a trail of bubbles across it. You see it, in her hand, the sudsy baby bottle, and your throat, it constricts. Your heart. It hammers. Hard against your rib cage. She's beautiful, so beautiful. But it's more than that. It's this. This could be a position you'll find her in often, and she'll find you there, too. If, if.
You notice the percolator, hot on the stove. She's gotten good at making coffee the old fashioned way. Though you know she still prefers yours, and— And you still prefer to make it for her, anyway. But. The lights that flash from the closet across the room indicate that there are clothes done in the dryer. Clothes that hadn't been in the washer last night. She's been up, for a long time. Doing things, important things. So she made her own. And your heart. It just. It feels that tug. The tug of what today is. The tug of why you're up, and why she's not at work.
I told the station I might be taking maternity leave. That I'd know more today. She tells you, swallowing a lump in her throat as she says it. Setting the bottle on the drying rack, and reaching for your coffee mug. I left a message for the lawyer. And I know we said that we'd return stuff, if— You know. But, I don't want her to come here with no clean clothes and no clean bottles, so…
"We could always donate it." You shrug, though you bite your lips into your mouth. You can't. You don't. You don't want to think about that. You want her. This little tiny baby. You want her so badly that it's physically painful. You want to bring her here, bring her home. Where you and Santana will teach her and protect her and love her. Love her so much. "I hope we don't have to."
I know. I hope that too, Sweetheart. She blinks. She blinks really fast, like she does when she doesn't want to get overcome by emotion. And you just, kiss her good morning. Because, because.
"Maybe I should put the bassinet together. And. And that. That vibrating seat, too?"
Yeah. Yeah. If you want to, I think it's a really good idea.
So you do. You sit down on the living room floor, still in your pajamas, with your coffee beside you, and you take pieces out of boxes. Reading the instructions. Over and over again. Because you don't want to do it wrong. You can't. You can't do it wrong. She needs to be safe. If, if. Santana. She comes in too. The bottles. They're all clean. Lined up in their drying rack. The formula, it's stacked up on the counter. The directions, they're taped over it. In case. In case. Santana sits on the couch, and she folds the laundry. Tiny baby clothes, stacking up beside her. Soft and clean and warm. And when they're finished, she sits on the floor with you. You work together, putting the places your, your— You can't call her that yet. You can't. Because if you do, and she's not. Your heart, it'll shatter all over the hospital floor. Putting the places a baby will lie together. You and your wife, hoping, hoping. Before the sun rises, they're done. Before the sun rises, you fill a cart together, on Amazon. The glider, a crib, a dresser, and books, so many books, that you'll sign to her. That you'll let her look at the pictures of. If, if. They'll be ready, when you press the submit order button. Later. If, if.
At seven, you're at the diner across from the hospital, having breakfast. You want to be at the hospital at eight. When visiting hours start. Even if you're sitting in the waiting room. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. For the woman who gave birth to this perfect baby. This baby that you already love. In a different way that you've ever loved anyone before. Different than you love Santana. But. No less, you think. Already. Because, she feels like, like yours. You feel like her mother. You can't explain it. So you eat. Not talking much, because you don't know what to say, you both feel it. If you talk too much, you'll get too excited. If you talk too much, you'll jinx things. So you eat. Eggs and toast and fruit. Coffee. Lots of coffee. And you wait.
When Santana gets up to go to the bathroom, you talk to Otis. You tell him, again, about the baby. The baby he'd met, cautious, at your feet. The baby, you want so badly to have as yours. For real. And you tell him, you tell him you'll need his help. You tell him, how you're so grateful for all the help he's given you in your life. For all the things you've done together. Living on your own, in the city. Building your career. Meeting Santana. Marrying Santana. Buying this home you have. And now. Now you'll need his help more than ever. You tell him that. Because he's your best friend. He's still your best friend— besides Santana. But. She doesn't count. Because she's her. You tell him you'll need him. That you're doing this together. You and him and Santana. He's your ears. You'll need him to tell you when she cries. Though you have that special baby monitor. You trust Otis more. You know he won't let you down. You tell him these things. And you think, you think. He understands. Because he's him, and he always does. Especially the most important things, When it comes to you.
You waste time. When you get to the hospital. It's only seven-forty-eight, and you've already had a whole day, it feels like. You walk around the first floor, Santana's hand in yours. Her foot, nervously tapping, whenever you pause your steps, looking at some piece of art, donated by some wealthy Philadelphian. You walk around, and then. Then you sit. In those chairs. Those chairs that see birth and death. Overwhelming elation, and devastating heartbreak. You sit and you wait. For Dina. For the lawyer to call. To see the baby. For everything. And you think of the book, the one that's already on your shelf at home, next to a torn and tattered copy of Eloise. Santana's favorite. The one that's yours. Until you've reached a most dreadful place, The Waiting Place. That's what this room feels like to you, and you jitter inside. You play with Santana's fingers. You look over her shoulder, at the phone. Black screen. Because it's early, and you know the lawyer won't be in yet. You watch her check the balance in your savings account. Important things, important things. And finally. Just when you feel like you might actually explode, if Santana doesn't first. Dina appears.
She's awake now. Her three words, even you can read them on her lips. And perfectly in sync, you and your wife stand. The other she, you'll see later. If, if. But this she, she's the most important meeting you'll ever have in your life. You think. This she, she's the one who gave birth to that baby. The one you already love. I'll take you up.
Your fingers and Santana's are clasped so tightly, you think, you think, they might have meshed together. But you can't let go of her. It's overwhelming. The waiting. The meeting. The thought of that baby, just down the hall. That baby. The one you ache to hold. The one you ache, even more. To see your wife with. Touching her. Rocking her. Humming to her. You know she is. When she holds her. Humming, humming, so she feels her here. Speaking in tactile language, because the language of sound isn't one that baby girl can understand. She's auditory, your wife, but, she understands, more than anyone you've ever met, how to connect with someone who isn't. She's shown you that for years now. She speaks her language, but together with you, she's learned yours too. And not just the sign. The everything. You ache, but you have to wait. And patience, patience, it brought you to the woman you'll love infinitely. It brought you to the home you've built your life in. You hope, if you exercise it well again. It will bring you to motherhood, too.
Dina disappears into the room. Room six-oh-eight. And when she emerges again, she nods, indicating that you can come inside. You breathe. Deep, deep, breaths, and you look at Santana. You look at her, because you're in this together. You look at her, because you need to see her eyes right now. The fire, burning bright there. Waiting, hoping, just like you. And she nods to you, telling you that you're both okay. That you'll show this woman that you're worthy. That you'll be good moms. That maybe you already are. That you'll care for the baby she gave birth to, that you love her already, that you always will. No matter what.
When you cross the threshold, you see her. Sitting there on the bed. Her legs crossed beneath her. Looking tired, so tired. And young, so young. The woman who gave birth to that perfect little baby. She's in your presence, and the weight of this moment, it bears down. Hard upon you. It's a moment. One of those ones that change your life indefinitely. Like a body splashing into cold water. Like spilled coffee on a cream colored jacket. You feel Santana suck in another breath beside you. Her body, puffing up with it. And you're uncertain. Uncertain what it is that you do, in the presence of the person whose newborn you'd like to adopt. You're uncertain. How, how you even begin.
"I'm Brittany." You find yourself saying. Before you even realize you are, really. Because she's looking at you. Wide, honey colored eyes. Lighter than your wife's. But. Blacker, still, somehow. "This is my wife. Santana."
The woman nods. She doesn't introduce herself by name. You're not surprised by that. Really. You think. Maybe. It's easier for her to do this, if she feels like you don't know her. If you see her, just as a being who brought life into the world. Not as the person she is. Not as the person she'll become. Maybe. It's easier for her to detach herself. Maybe. It's easier for her to just let go. You understand it. You do. You lived most of your life detached. Because that's how things were easier. You catch most of her words of greeting, as Santana leans in to shake her hand, because it's all she can think to do. And, you follow her lead. You follow her lead, and then Dina offers you the seats at her bedside. Santana, sliding hers a little closer to you. Santana, loosening her grip on your hands. Not letting go, but— But knowing you might need her translations. Knowing you both might need each other's closeness, as much as you can give it. And Otis. Lying at your feet. Your silent partner.
You met her? She asks, and you both nod. Slow. A little hesitant. She's beautiful right? I…her. Just one. Your eyes flicker to Santana, who signs the words, filling in the missing held where you couldn't read it. Both of you aren't…in the file, it says…
I'm hearing. Santana tells the girl. But I sign fluently. Brittany reads lips well, when I speak slowly, but, I don't want her to always have to speak my default language. And being able to translate when I need to is good.
Can you understand me? The girl looks at you, enunciating her words more carefully, and you feel your eyes blink furiously at the effort, before your head bobs. Up and down. You speak though.
"I wasn't born deaf." You say, cautious, because, the baby. It's strange. It's strange. The whole time. You'd worried that your deafness would be a strike. Causing someone to avoid considering you and Santana. But. But now the girl wants to know about it. Because, because. If, if. "I lost my hearing when I was seven. So. I. I speak both."
Okay. She eyes you, and Santana's grip on your hand, it tightens. Anxious. So anxious. Dina…your file…doesn't say a lot about that. I wanted to know. Because of her. I didn't…drugs or eat hot dogs.
"It happens." You say. Your voice is soft, you think, and, you wonder, wonder. Wonder about those people again. The ones that didn't want her. Though you don't want to. You think about your mom. Though you don't want to. You think about blame, blame, blame. But there isn't anyone to blame. For you. Or for the baby, either. It just is. You're okay, you're okay. You ended up okay. And the baby. She will too. She's a warrior. You can see it in her tiny face. "Things we don't plan. They happen."
This isn't what I pictured. She looks between you and Santana. She looks into her lap. Sometimes. So it's a little difficult for you to understand all of her words. But. You try. And your brain and Santana's hands, they work to fill the gaps. For her. …Pictured her in a great big house...play soccer, ballet, sing maybe. But now. All the things I…They don't exist. I know she's not mine…dreams for, not anymore. But for nine months, I did. I pictured her life. With a mom and a dad. The ones I picked out. You open and close your mouth. You're not sure if you should speak. Or. If it's out of turn. And you see Santana. Having the same struggle. And I realize, her life, it's not going to be what I pictured at all. And I just need to know…be around love, and be loved.
We can't give her a mom and dad. Santana looks at you, and your heart, it races. You're scared, scared, scared. Sick to your stomach scared. We can't give her that. But, I promise you, from both of us, that if she's ours, she'll have that, the last dream you're keeping for her. Brittany and I love each other, and we want to share that with a child. We will love her, with everything we have. And more than that, we'll, understand her.
"I. I grew up." You start, when Santana nods to you, encouraging you to speak. "In a home where my parents didn't know what to do with me. Because they didn't expect me to lose my hearing and they thought everything they pictured from me was just. Gone. But, I have a great career. I'm married to a woman I love. And I hope, that I'm going to be a mom. If not today, then someday. They're things that my mom, I don't think she thought were possible for me. When she thought I was damaged. I understand what it's like. To be different in the world, because I am. I fought to have the life that I dreamed, when my mom's old dreams were gone. And Santana, she taught me that I'm worthy. That's what we can offer her. Even if we aren't what you pictured."
When I decided to give birth to her, I promised…what's best for me, and my future…best for her. Her eyes, they're wide. Like. Like she's trying. Maybe. Not to cry. And you resist the urge to reach over and touch her. She's not. In your very small circle of people that you can touch. But you wish you could do something. You wish you could do something, and then, she smiles a little at you. My mom…coffee. I'm not alone here, it's okay.
"Good. I'm really glad, for that." Santana's thumb draws hearts on the back of your wrist as you speak. That secret way she talks to you sometimes, her own little sign, her silent I love you, Sweetheart. Her silent you are more special than you know.
You feel like, like moms. The young girl pushes her dark curls from her face. You'll give her what she needs.
We'll do everything in our power. You feel the vibrations of Santana's nervous laugher thrum through your body. You feel it bubble in your chest, too. Because that was more than if, if. That was. It was—
And when she's big enough, if you could just—Tears begin to fall, and she wipes them, furiously, furiously from her face. And she talks slowly. So slowly, so you know, you know. She needs you both to understand this. More than anything else. If you could just tell her, that there was someone else. Someone who loved her enough to give her to you. I don't want pictures, or letters….let her go. But. I just ask for that.
"We. We will." You let yourself feel that hope, in its entirety. That hope that you've been fighting against. Because. You couldn't let it get shattered. But. But here she is. She's talking to you. And to Santana. Like you're the moms. Like, she chose you. To raise that perfect little baby as your own. The one you already love, though you've known her only in brief moments. And you can't, you can't look at your wife. Because you'll burst. You'll burst, and you can't do that. Not right this moment. "She'll always know."
The time. It's up. You see, you see. By the way Dina stands. And you watch. As Santana murmurs something. A thank you, you think. A our gratitude can't be put into words. A we'll be the best moms we can possibly be. And you thank her again yourself, swallowing, swallowing hard as this girl keeps her chin up. As this girl passes off the motherhood of the girl she carried for nine months to you, to Santana. Your wife. She slips her arm around you. Your wife. She looks back once more, with you, when you cross back through the doorway and Dina closes herself in behind you. Another goodbye. Another thank you. Another recognition of the inner strength in that girl. The strength to give up her baby. The same type of strength your mother-in-law had to keep hers. And your wife, she breaks down, with you, the moment that door closes. Because you've just been given the greatest gift you'll ever receive, but you know, it doesn't come without a loss to another person.
You sit again. You sit and wait. For Dina. Because there's still so much more you'll need to do. But right now, you'll have to wait again. The waiting this time though, it's easier. In the waiting this time, you know, you know. She's yours. Or she will be. She'll— She'll come home with you. And when you think about that. When you think about the bottles and the clothes. The little outfit Santana tucked into her bag, in case, in case. When you think about the bassinet you'd put together, barely speaking, for fear. When you think about her, in both of your arms, you can't help the sob that bursts free of your chest. You can't help but look up from where you rest against Santana, and you see, you see, she's crying too.
Sweetheart. It's real.
"We're. We're moms. Santana. We're moms. She's. She's going to be ours."
She is, Britt. She is. Santana, she brings her hands up to both sides of your face. She holds you. Just like that. She holds you like that for a long time. Studying you, maybe. The way you study her. Remembering every detail in this moment. This great big one. This one that even Santana, and her ability to make important words. Love words, and otherwise. This one that she can't even find the words to fill. I love you, so much. More than ever, every single moment.
"You too. Santana. So much that I don't even know how I handle it. And. And we're going to share all our great big love. With her."
We are. Oh, God. We are.
The morning, it's long. You ache, you ache to be with her. You ache to hold her again. To tell her that you're her moms now. To tell her again, how much you love her. But. You'll have her whole life to tell her that. Now, now you need to deal with the legal stuff. The adoption, it won't be finalized for months. Dina, she'll come see you, in the interim. But. You need to sign guardianship papers. Because her biological mother has signed to relinquish her rights. You need to deal with financial things. And you train your eyes to Santana, as you do. So serious, after she hangs up the phone, when the lawyer finally calls. Serious, as she tells you everything you need to know. Signing furiously for you the whole time, so you don't miss anything. But always, always so sure. She's smart, so smart, and she's making sure that each letter is right. She's making sure that. That nothing will mess this up. You know, you know, the first thirty days will be hell. The first thirty days, you'll be on eggshells. Scared, scared, that, that she might go back, to the woman who gave her to you. But. You'll love her then. You'll love her just the same. Because you've only met her once, but this tiny little everything has seeped into every cell of your body. And the love, it overwhelms you.
When it's finally over, the legal stuff. When it's finally over, you get to see her again. Not just see her. You get to— To get ready to take her home. Home. You get to sit in the room alone with her. For the first time. You get to change her. To dress her. To have her. Because there's a folder in Santana's big bag. A folder with papers that say you can. A folder that will bring you to a courthouse soon, where they'll give you a birth certificate, your names printed on it, as her parents. Lopez, printed after the name you choose for her. You don't need that to say she's yours. You've known, you've known. Since the moment you laid eyes on her. But, you need it so nothing can ever compromise that.
Santana takes her first this time. You nudge her over there. And you watch, Otis at your side. You watch, as she lifts her from the bassinet. Natural, so natural at it. You watch, as she presses a kiss. Right in the center of her forehead. Enamored, so enamored with her. You watch, the way two pairs of dark lashes flutter, taking each other in. And you watch, you watch the way Santana touches baby soft skin, ghosting over it, memorizing every inch of it. Telling her, telling her. She is ours. We are hers. You love her, you love her more, your wife. You love her. And because of that, you're doing these things. Things you never thought possible. You love her, and from that love, you've become a mother. A mother to that perfect newborn in her arms.
She needs a name. Santana tears her eyes from the baby. She tears her eyes from her, and looks up at you. Looks in you, that way she does. Like you— Like you make her do impossible things, too. Then she shifts, just a little bit, so she has better use of her hand, singing the letter B, and pointing to her eyes. Your sign name. The name you'd been given by your teacher, decades before you'd known your wife. But relevant, more, every day since you've known her. Two names.
"Two names." You repeat. Stepping closer to them. The three of you, in this tiny space. Otis, sitting at your side. Your family. Your real family. Your breath. It's stolen away. Because. Because it's a lot. The best kind of a lot. You take your turn, leaning down to kiss a tiny forehead, just below where her white cap covers the crown, and then Santana's lips. Watching her eyes. Brimming. Brimming. "Our girl. It doesn't. It doesn't feel real. She's like. A dream."
But she is. And she's ours. She cups her hand and brings it across her chest. You can tell, you can tell. That she's figuring out how to speak to her. And. And it's beautiful, the way she just, touches her softly when her eyes are closed. The way she tries to make her feel the love, since she can't hear it. Like she's always done with you. We planned so much, but we never thought of names.
"Did you know—" You lead her, careful, careful, not to jostle the now sleeping baby. To the little couch. And you sit beside her, knees brushing. "Did you know that Eloise. It means warrior?"
You. You looked that up? She asks. Her lashes. Doing that fluttering thing again. The one that makes your knees weak. The one that makes you feel the tone of a voice you've never heard. The one that makes your belly twist and your heart thump.
"I just. I was wondering. One day. Awhile ago. Just because, it's your favorite book. Your mom. She saved that book for a lot of years, so I know it's special. And. I don't know. I was curious."
Eloise lived all my childhood dreams, except, she never had her parents around. Just Nanny. So when my mom would read it to me, I felt like. I don't know. It's silly now, but, I felt like, I was sharing her big fancy world, and she was maybe, sharing my mom with me.
"Santana Lopez." You don't know what to say. Your Santana. Your forever love. She's something. Something wonderful. Even more. With your baby in her arms. "What if. What if we called her Eloise. What if, our strong little girl. What if she got to live…live all the big-came-true-dreams. And. And she got to have moms too?"
Brittany. Brittany, Brittany. I think, that it's a beautiful name. And I love your reasons behind it.
"Yeah?"
Yes. For sure. She leans over and she kisses you between the eyes. Careful, careful still, to keep the baby asleep. Baby Eloise. Pressed against her heart. Feeling all the love inside of it. Eloise, our little baby Eloise. What if, for her name sign, we used what they called her, before us?
"Sweet like sugar." You look down, at the creased little forehead of the sleeping baby. Your sleeping daughter. Then, you cast your eyes back up. To Santana. Forming the name in her head. She molds the letter E, slowly, with her hand. Then she brushes the pads of her index and middle finger against her chin, before curling them back into her fist. And you gasp. At that. Because it's her name. In the language she'll speak. It's her name. And it's beautiful. "That's perfect."
Oh, baby Eloise. She kisses her, again and again. Speaking to her that way. In love. In affection.You, baby girl, you are so loved.
"Let's. Let's get her dressed, Santana. Let's talk to the doctors. And. And let's take her home."