She and my mom actually became friends. It started with baking lessons. My mom invited Regina over one afternoon to teach her how to make a proper pie crust.
“The secret is cold butter,” I overheard my mom saying. “And not overworking the dough.”
“Sometimes the best things can’t be bought,” my mom replied. “Like the look on someone’s face when they taste something you made with your own hands.”
Over the months, my mom taught her to knit, sew, and even bake more complex desserts. And Regina started making gifts for the baby instead of buying them. Little booties, tiny hats, a quilt made from scraps of fabric that took her months to complete.
“I’ve spent my whole life thinking I could buy my way into people’s hearts,” she confessed to me one afternoon as we watched her granddaughter play on a blanket. “Robert made all the money, and I spent it. That became my identity.”
She smiled, watching as my daughter grabbed a stuffed bunny Regina had sewn herself, complete with slightly uneven ears. “Now I know there are some things money can’t buy. Like the feeling I get when she cuddles with something I made her.”
Regina’s still a work in progress. There are days when she slips, when the old Regina peeks through and she tries to solve problems by throwing money at them. But she catches herself now, or Robert does, with a simple, “Remember the delivery room, Regina.”
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