💛 “I Adopted My Pregnant Housemaid… And Ended Up With a Surprise Grandson”

My sister said it in that voice she reserves for when I match sandals with socks or ruin my diet in minute one. But this time, it wasn’t my fashion or my snacks—it was me, apparently, being compassionate.

“I’m not crazy,” I said, stirring my coffee like a blender. “I’m being compassionate.”

“Compassionate? You’re going to adopt your pregnant housemaid! What will people say?”

Ah, the people. That invisible club that always has time to judge but never to help.

“People can go fry asparagus,” I told her. My sister nearly snorted coffee across the room.

It started three months ago, when Valeria knocked on my door, looking for a job. Twenty-two, six-months pregnant, backpack hanging from her shoulder like it had survived three wars, and that “I’m falling apart but don’t want to disturb you” look.

“Ma’am, I clean very well. I cook too. I don’t charge much.”

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked.

Silence.

I made her eggs, toast, juice… and almost hugged her when she devoured it like it was a feast.

That’s when she told me her story: family who kicked her out, a boyfriend who vanished faster than my youth, shelters full, doors closed.

“You can stay,” I said.

“As an employee?” she asked, mouth full.

“As a person,” I corrected. “The guest room is empty, and I already talk to myself. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

The first few days were… interesting. She cleaned every corner like a ninja. One day, I found her climbing a chair to clean the windows.

“Get down! You’re pregnant, not in ninja training!” I yelled.

She came down, crying.

“No one’s cared for me like this since I was a kid,” she whispered.

And in that moment, I knew it: my sister was right. I was crazy. But what a beautiful kind of madness.

My family staged an intervention.

“What if he steals you?”
“What if the baby cries all night?”
“What will Father Julio say?”

Father Julio blessed her belly and then me too. “Marta, this is the most Christian thing you’ve ever done.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or ask him to bless my patience as well.

My bridge club friends were worse.

“Ay, Marta, how noble you are,” said Rosa, sounding like a soap opera judge.

“At my age, I no longer have the strength to care about your opinion, Rosa,” I replied.

Bridge was canceled. Diplomacy failed.

Meanwhile, Valeria bloomed. Singing in the shower, stealing my secret cookies, teaching me TikTok.

“Move your hip, Mrs. Marta.”
“My hip retired ten years ago, dear.”

We laughed until our stomachs hurt.

And then… the big day. Three a.m., chaos ensued.

“MARTA, I THINK IT’S TIME!”
“VALERIA, I CAN’T FIND THE CAR KEYS!”

Pajamas, heavy breathing, Despacito playing in the background.

Twelve hours later, Sebastian was born. Already judging life with that tiny scowl only newborns can pull off.

“Do you want to hold him?” the nurse asked.

Before I could say no, he was in my arms.

“Hello, little scandal,” I whispered. He looked at me like he was evaluating my life decisions.

Valeria, from the bed:

“Did I want you to be my grandmother?”

And there I was, bawling like a baby.

“I already am, fool.”

A year later, Valeria studies nursing. Sebastian and I spend days discovering what shouldn’t go in the mouth, and yet somehow ends up there anyway.

My sister came over. Sebastian threw his arms around her and melted her heart.

“Marta, I still think you’re crazy.”
“I know.”
“But it’s the most beautiful kind of insanity I’ve ever seen.”

Valeria brought in tea, shining now instead of sad.

“What are they talking about?”

“How crazy your mother is.”

And we all laughed.

Because yes, I’m her mother, her grandmother, and her accomplice in this wonderful madness.

Crazy? Probably.
Happy? Absolutely.

Sometimes, that’s all that matters.