Owen's Daughter by Jo-Ann Mapson

and went to the stove. “Did you take the pregnancy test while you were in the bathroom?”
    Glory nodded. “The directions say it takes ten minutes to develop. I figured if it turned out positive, you’d be here to soften the blow.”
    Margaret reduced the flame and added four tablespoons of the Dutch cocoa to the steaming milk, whisking it until it turned a rich chocolate brown and adding a tablespoon of honey. “Would it be so terrible to have another baby?” she asked.
    Glory laughed. “Picture me running after a toddler while I’m nursing a newborn.”
    “Well,” Margaret said, “I suppose you can consider other options.”
    “Not me,” Glory said. “What if he turns out to be another Joseph?”
    Margaret smiled. “Or he could be a she.”
    “It’s definitely a boy,” Glory said. “Snips and snails and all that. What is a ‘snip,’ anyway?”
    “Parsnip, that root vegetable, I think. Cocoa’s ready,” she said. “Go fetch that test and let’s have a look.”
    “Auntie Margaret!” Aspen shouted. “There are f-f-f-fairies in your garden! I seed a million of them.”
    “I saw a million of them,” Glory corrected.
    “You seed them too?” Aspen asked.
    “Never mind,” Glory said, laughing as she headed to the bathroom.
    “Is that so?” Margaret said. “How many marshmallows would you like in your cocoa?”
    “Forty-eleben, please!” Aspen said.
    “I’m afraid I only have six marshmallows left. If I give them all to you, then Grandma and Auntie Margaret won’t have any. Do you think we could share?”
    Aspen stamped her foot.
    “Remember, we don’t do that at Auntie Margaret’s house.”
    Aspen pouted. “Fine, okay. I will share.”
    “If you have two, how many does that leave for your grandma and me?”
    Aspen counted on her fingers. “One, two. Can I put them in?”
    “If you wash your hands first. With soap.”
    The deed was done, but Glory had not returned to the kitchen. Margaret set Aspen up with a newsprint pad and some erasable markers. “Remember, we only use the markers on the paper.”
    “I know, I know,” the little blond girl said. “Not on the wuh-wull and not on the floor and n-n-n-n-not on the dog. Auntie Margaret?”
    “Yes, honey?”
    “How sick are you? Are you going to get well?”
    Margaret’s blood ran cold, the same way it always did when Aspen let out these bits of information that she had no way of knowing. The little girl did it infrequently, but when she did, she was consistently right. It started when she knew Glory had gone into labor, and again when she told Margaret that Echo had an earache, which was confirmed the next day at the vet’s. “It’s true I am sick,” she told Aspen, trying to make light of it, “but not very. I’ll be here with you for a long, long time.”
    Aspen took a slurp of her cocoa. “That’s what Dolores said. I loves you, Auntie Margaret.”
    “I love you, too. Now keep an eye on Sparrow for me, just for a minute,” Margaret said, and went down the hall to find her neighbor.
    Glory was sitting on the edge of the claw-foot tub, crying.
    “Positive?” Margaret said.
    Glory nodded. “Is it okay if I sit here awhile, cry myself out?”
    “Tell you what,” Margaret said. “Leave the girls with me. Go spend some time with your husband. I can give Aspen her bath, and I have instant formula from the last time I sat for Sparrow. Go on home.”
    “You’re the best friend ever,” Glory said.
    “I consider you the very same.”
    “Aren’t we fortunate to have found each other?” Glory asked her.
    “Profoundly fortunate,” Margaret answered.
    And then she was babysitting instead of feeling sorry for herself. Probably that was the way things were meant to be.
     
    The next morning, Casey came over for the girls. She looked like any other twenty-something in her blue jeans and hoodie, but Margaret knew—perhaps better than anyone—that appearances could be deceiving. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”