They are one and three years old. The older one has my mother’s middle name, just with fancier spelling. The younger one, the baby, is even more beautiful than her mother. Except, as a baby her mother was a dark-haired beauty with the most beautiful blue eyes. Almost thirty now, she is still a beauty. Confident and so much more aware of her place in the world than I was at that age. But that baby. My, my.

The girls are blonde, courtesy of a sweet blonde boy who grew up to be the man who loves my daughter. Their stubborn trait can be blamed equally on each parent. But the way they take my breath each time I see them – that’s all theirs.

I remember the first time the older one took my hand and said “Follow me Mimi”. I wanted to shout with joy that she knew my name!

How is it that you think your heart has all the love you will ever need inside it, but then you discover this grandbaby love and find it is uncharted territory?  Just when you think you’re older and wiser and there are no more “firsts”, your children have children, and brand new love finds and charms your weary heart.


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