Maya's First Birthday
Sara wasn't sure what amused her more — the fact that the entire team had shown up for a one-year-old's birthday party, or that Maya was completely unimpressed by all of them.
"She's got your face," Catherine teased Grissom as she leaned over Maya's high chair. "That look — like she's already judging us."
Maya blinked up at her. Silent. Intense.
"That's not my face," Grissom said without looking up from cutting cake. "That's an entomologist's face. She's observing her environment."
"She's plotting our demise," Nick added helpfully.
Betty sat nearby on the couch, watching the chaos unfold. She didn't need to hear it to understand it — Sara had been signing for her when needed, but mostly Betty just watched. Like her son. Like her granddaughter.
Maya toddled across the room, gravitating right toward Betty, climbing into her lap without hesitation.
Betty smiled, signing gently smart girl while Maya's chubby hands clumsily tried to mimic the shape.
"She's been watching us sign," Sara told Grissom, quietly impressed.
Grissom's face softened — that private, rare thing he reserved for his family.
"Of course she has. Observation is instinctual."
Greg plopped down beside them with his ridiculous gift — the plush killer rabbit from Monty Python. "It's time," he declared solemnly.
Sara raised a brow. "Time for what?"
"To start her weird education. It's a Sanders family tradition."
Betty signed to Grissom — He's very strange.
Grissom signed back without missing a beat — But well-meaning.
Maya grabbed the rabbit, turned it over in her hands — studying it like a specimen — before giving it a little nod of acceptance.
Everyone burst out laughing.
"She is a Grissom," Catherine declared. "God help us all."
Later, after most of the team had left — Brass muttering about needing whiskey after surviving a baby party — Grissom sat with Betty on the couch while Sara put Maya down for the night.
Betty signed to him — You've done well.
He ducked his head, that little boy grin still buried in the man he'd become. She's remarkable.
Betty caught his hand — squeezed it like she used to when he was small. So were you. You just needed someone to see it.
Once she had settled their daughter, Sara watched the interaction from the kitchen — and smiled.
Yeah. Maya was a Grissom. And thank God for that.
The apartment was wrecked in the way only a first birthday could manage — paper plates, crumpled napkins, and the aftermath of a toddler who had discovered that icing belonged everywhere.
Grissom was collecting empty cups, methodically stacking them like a field experiment, while Sara scraped dried frosting off the table with a plastic knife.
"This was a terrible idea," she said flatly, eyeing the glitter bomb that had been Greg's card. "Remind me to retaliate at his next birthday."
Grissom looked over the rim of his glasses. "He'll expect nothing less."
They worked in companionable silence for a while — the easy rhythm of two people who'd done this a hundred times. Different messes. Same instinct.
"My mother thinks she is remarkable" he told her
Sara's mouth quirked. "She's one. She thinks dirt is a food group."
"She also sorted her blocks by color today," he added pointedly. "Then by shape."
Sara threw the frosting-coated knife into the sink. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"
Grissom gave that small, proud little smile. "Profoundly."
She stepped closer, bumping his hip with hers. "You doing okay? With your mom being here?"
He paused, looking toward the office door where Betty had gone, there was a sofabed in there for guests.
"I think…" He hesitated, searching for the words. "I think seeing her with Maya — it untangles some of the things I didn't understand about my childhood."
Sara's expression softened.
"She was isolated," he continued. "But not cold. Just… living in a world I didn't know how to reach."
Sara leaned into him, resting her head briefly against his shoulder.
"You two are more alike than you know," she said quietly.
He huffed a dry laugh. "God help Maya then."
Sara grinned. "Oh, she'll be fine. She's got the Grissom brain and my stubbornness."
"An unstoppable force and an immovable object."
"Exactly."
They stood there for another beat — surrounded by the quiet aftermath of family — until Grissom broke the moment in typical fashion.
"We should catalog the gifts."
Sara groaned. "You mean write thank you notes?"
"I mean classify them by function, educational value, and absurdity."
She snorted. "You're impossible."
He kissed the top of her head.
"And you married me anyway."