mother please be proud (father be forgiving)
[i had such feels after seeing judy at graduation and getting to meet santana’s mom, and so this is santana and quinn’s entire headcanon through their mothers’ povs. drabble. faberry/brittana endgame, of course.
this is one of those things i had to write, so i guess this is like a little finale bonus fic.
title from "i was meant for the stage" by the decemberists. i mention "breathe me" by sia, and you can also listen to (watch) "blood" by the middle east, because it’s breathtaking.]
mother please be proud (father be forgiving)
(so love me mother, and love me father, and love my sister as well.)
one. i think all of us are always five years old in the presence and absence of our parents
The second thing Maribel Lopez does after she sees the little plus sign on the pregnancy test—after calling David in tears, and he’s ecstatic—is open a savings account.
Because she’s pregnant, it’s easy for her morning coffee spare change to go into the account, and, for nine months, she doesn’t really think much of it. David makes plenty of money and he’s already receiving promotions at the hospital; they have a nice house, with a yard big enough for children, a dog, a swingset. Things haven’t always been like this—staying with David through his residency was a struggle—but now they’re happy.
And then that little baby is born, Maribel’s spitting image, a perfect (perfect) baby girl.
“Santana,” Maribel says, and, although she still feels a little out of breath, it sounds perfect against her lips.
She puts as much money into the savings account as she can after that, because Maribel wants Santana to have everything.
Maribel never drinks coffee in the mornings after Santana’s born, no matter how tired she is.
When Santana starts kindergarten—she got David’s brains, because she’s smart, although she’s also lazy—she gets in trouble within the first week for fighting.
That night, after Santana comes home with a fat lip, Maribel goes to punish her, but then Santana starts crying and her lip trembles and she says, “Mami, they were calling Brittany stupid.”
“Who’s Brittany?” Maribel asks.
Santana sniffles. “My best friend,” she says.
Maribel looks at the determination on Santana’s little, chubby face and she only nods. “Well, when can we have a play-date?”
Santana’s dimples, her bright, gentle smile, are worth every penny.
In third grade, Santana announces that she wants to do gymnastics, because “Brits is doing it and I think it’d be fun if we got to together.”
Maribel talks to Mrs. Pierce and they arrange to get Santana into class with Brittany.
Within a few weeks, Santana is limping around the house, bruises everywhere, but she’s happy everyday just to get to spend more time with Brittany.
Maribel helps Santana ice every injury with gentle fingers.
“Thanks, Mami,” Santana says very seriously for a nine year old, every single time.
As it turns out, in seventh grade, all of the gymnastics and dance lessons and whatever other things Brittany has managed to get Santana to do pay off when Santana and Brittany start cheer.
“Honestly, San, you don’t seem like a cheerleader to me,” Maribel says.
Santana rolls her eyes. “If Britt wants to do it, I can too.”
In eighth grade, Santana comes home crying one day after school. She won’t tell Maribel what’s wrong, but for the next few months Maribel catches Santana crying all the time, at night, softly, into her pillow.
It’s worrisome, but Santana’s grades aren’t slipping, and she’s not acting out—more than normal—at school, and Brittany still comes over frequently, and is as sweet as ever.
One day, Maribel opens the door to Santana’s room to bring them cookies and hot chocolate one night, and Santana’s asleep, curled up in Brittany’s arms. Brittany’s fingers—gentle, so softly—are running through Santana’s tangled hair, and she smiles sleepily at Maribel.
When she looks back on everything, it’s probably the moment she’s most sure of BrittanyandSantana, because Santana hadn’t cried herself to sleep.
She catches them kissing the summer before ninth grade. It’s something she’s been expecting for a while, so when she sees them in the backyard after she gets home from the grocery store earlier than expected, Santana’s hands buried in Brittany’s bright hair and Brittany smiling lazily as Santana tips her head back and takes a breath, she doesn’t even pause before she opens the freezer to put away some popsicles for later.
In fact, she even smiles.
Santana brings Quinn home with Brittany on a cold day in November. Quinn is limping when they make it to the car, her face twisted in a little grimace.
She’s the most polite child Maribel has ever met, completely different from Santana and Brittany and their constant antics.
That night Santana asks David to look at Quinn’s back because she’d fallen in practice earlier, and then Quinn spends the night.
When Maribel sees them all asleep together, cuddled around Brittany on the couch, the remnants of Rosemary’s Baby playing on the TV, she automatically readjusts to thinking of Quinn as another daughter.
Because Santana didn’t really have other friends, but mostly because Santana never shared Brittany with anyone.
Santana starts to bring home boys. She cries every time after they leave.
One time in the spring of freshman year, Quinn comes home with Santana after cheer practice. This time it’s Quinn that Maribel hears crying, and when she hears Santana’s soft murmurs of, “It’ll be okay, Q. I promise,” Maribel cries a little herself, because Santana sounds gentle and comforting and fiercely loyal—and she is—and that’s all she’s really ever wanted for Santana after all.
Sophomore is SantanaandBrittanyandQuinn, laughing and hanging around the house, singing for a new club they’ve all joined, until one day it’s just SantanaandBrittany.
“Where’s Quinn?” Maribel asks.
“Pregnant,” Santana says, leveling her with a gaze, then walking away without another word.
Maribel doesn’t know what to say, and she calls Judy who doesn’t answer.
For a few months, she doesn’t see Quinn at all, because Quinn stops cheering.
Then, one night, Quinn shows up on their doorstep, carrying a duffelbag, some of her dresses hanging out. She’s certainly pregnant, and she’s been crying, and Maribel ushers her inside.
Santana lumbers down the stairs, then stops short when she sees Quinn.
“Finn kicked me out,” Quinn mumbles, “and I don’t want to stay at Puck’s tonight, so I was wondering—I can sleep on the couch, or the floor, whatever—”
Santana quietly pads over to Quinn, her hair wet and wavy from the shower, and says, “You can share my bed, Tubbers. As long as you fit, that is.”
Quinn’s smile is tiny but Santana’s is huge, and she grabs Quinn’s bag with a roll of her eyes.
That summer, Brittany goes on vacation for a few weeks. It’s the first time she catches Santana with Quinn. The way the kiss is angry, on the couch during a movie, rough and harsh.
After Quinn goes home, Maribel quietly sits down next to Santana and says, “How’s Brittany?”
Santana starts to cry. She stands up from the couch and says, “I don’t even fucking know, Mom.”
Maribel stands and hugs Santana to her, and Santana doesn’t pull away, even though by now she certainly could.
During junior year, Maribel has a hard time keeping track of whether or not Santana is friends with half of the people in her life, because Santana is mean and hard to deal with.
Brittany is the only person in the entire world that makes Santana Santana, though, and Maribel welcomes her into their house every single time.
Brittany also gives the best hugs.
When Maribel asks Santana how Nationals went, Santana shrugs.
“Quinn cried a lot and then I convinced her to cut, like, eight inches of her hair off, which was fun. Then Rachel and Finn kissed so we lost. Brittany had fun, though.”
A day later, Quinn comes over and looks so sad, and she tells Maribel all about Santana trying to attack Rachel, although Quinn does laugh a little.
Quinn doesn’t come over any after that, but Santana seems so happy, always doing things with Brittany, that Maribel doesn’t have the heart to ask anymore.
About a month into Santana’s senior year, she sits down at the dinner table and says, “I need to tell you something.”
She’s a mess—crying already—and then she says, “Mami, Papi, I’m gay.”
Santana sniffles and sucks in a breath, looking at Maribel with eyes huge in her face.
It’s in that moment that Maribel stands and calmly goes to hug her child, to hold her daughter, and then she feels David’s strong arms around them both.
“We love you, Santana,” David says, and Santana just sobs into the front of Maribel’s shirt.
She stumbles through some explanation about a stupid boy at school and a local TV commercial, and then she takes a deep breath.
Santana says, “Brittany’s my girlfriend, and I love her.”
Maribel smiles and kisses Santana’s forehead. She doesn’t say anything about Quinn, not now.
Very quietly later that night, Maribel sits on the side of Santana’s bed and says, “You know we’ll be here for you no matter what. You’re our daughter, and this will only make me more proud of you.”
Santana cries again, but Maribel knows this time the tears are completely different from all of the nights before.
When Santana comes home from the hospital a day after Quinn’s accident, she stumbles up to her room, shaking her head when Maribel asks if she wants dinner.
She hears Santana slam the door and then curse a few times, then she hears Santana flop down on her bed and cry loud, angry sobs.
Maribel visits the next morning, finds Judy slumped over the side of Quinn’s bed, Quinn’s right hand grasped between Judy’s.
All Maribel can see in Quinn’s bruised and stitched features, in the breathing tube taped into her mouth and the plastic snaking out from between her ribs, is her own child, so when she goes home and finds Santana standing catatonically in front of a picture of her and Quinn on the fridge, Maribel says, “She’s going to be okay,” for her own benefit as well.
Quinn comes over several weeks later, for a sleepover that Santana insists they have. She’s in a wheelchair and still pretty fragile, with healing ribs and bright red scars, but David will be there, so it’s the safest place for her, really.
They eat tamales and Quinn laughs and smiles and says things that Santana teases her for involving books, and tonight Quinn’s wearing her glasses, so Santana teases her for that too, but when Brittany takes Santana’s hand and kisses her cheek, Quinn teases them right back.
Maribel finds them all that night pressed together, Brittany holding Santana tenderly on one side and Quinn on the other, on the couch.
They’d fallen asleep watching Rosemary’s Baby, and Maribel can’t help but think that it’s maybe one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.
Their senior year, Santana calls her from Chicago, crying, to tell her that they won Nationals.
She hears Quinn in the background, screaming with Brittany and Rachel—who is becoming one of Santana’s good friends, even though she’ll never admit it—and all Maribel can really say is, “You deserve this.”
Santana goes to New York. Gets to go to New York, because Maribel never actually drank coffee again. But Maribel has never missed the bitter taste or the caffeine. Not really: Santana’s provided enough of both as it is.
Santana’s smile is so bright, though, when she comes back for a weekend in October with a vibrant, healthy Quinn, and Santana kisses Brittany with tears in her eyes because she’s missed her so much.
(She expects to help Santana and Brittany plan their wedding, and she expects her mother to be in attendance. She expects silly, vibrant, loved grandchildren. She expects to see Quinn find someone, too, a woman—Maribel knows, too—that makes Quinn aware of how strong and worthy she really is. She mostly expects Santana, and the people Santana loves, to be painfully, stunningly happy.)
Maribel knows she wouldn’t have it any other way.
two. your folks are like god. you love them and want to make them happy, but you still want to make up your own rules
When she’s born, Judy thinks she’s the most perfect baby she’s ever seen, even more perfect than Frannie.
“Lucy Quinn Fabray,” she whispers into the highway map of blue veins stretching under the thin, silky skin across the baby’s skull. “No one else will ever be like you,” she says, and wills it to be true.
The first time Russell yells at Lucy, she’s three, and it’s because she peed her pants during a four-hour-long car ride when he refused to stop on the way to his parents house.
The next day, when they’re back home, is the first day that Judy spends getting drunk.
Frannie is beautiful. She gets Judy’s bone structure and Judy’s figure and Judy’s eyes. Frannie is also talented and funny and clever, and she can command a room without anyone ever noticing.
It’s a really, really big shadow for anyone to live in, especially someone like Lucy, who is the gentlest child Judy has ever met. Lucy lives her days in Wonderland or at Hogwarts, and it’s too painful—Russell degrades all of Lucy’s shortcomings the worst—for Judy to try to acknowledge why.
In fifth grade, Lucy comes home from school with a cut above her forehead.
She says she fell.
Judy doesn’t believe her but she doesn’t press the issue.
Frannie leaves for college—full-ride to Stanford—when Lucy starts eighth grade. Although Frannie is kind and fun, Judy’s sure it’s one of the best things for Lucy.
Because Lucy starts ballet, and then Lucy starts gymnastics, and then Lucy starts to not eat dinner, then Lucy starts to look more and more like Frannie—like Judy. Lucy appears to read less.
Judy knows that Lucy still cries herself to sleep every night, but she likes to think that progress is progress.
Lucy asks one day if she can get a nose job. “I want to look like Frannie,” she says.
Russell agrees, and Judy doesn’t know how to go against him anymore, so she does too.
(She realizes it’s wrong: Her daughter is fourteen years old, and she is beautiful.)
Two weeks later, when Lucy comes home from the hospital, groggy, bandages around her swollen, bruised face, her newly-blond hair messy, Judy doesn’t cry.
Lucy doesn’t either, even Judy knows it must really hurt.
“Call me Quinn now,” Lucy says, once the bandages come off and her face is breathtaking.
Judy calls her Quinnie sometimes because it has the same amount of syllables as Lucy, and Judy takes solace in the hazel of Quinn’s eyes, because they’re the same as Lucy’s, but mostly because they look nothing like her own.
Quinn is talented at dance and gymnastics, almost insanely so for starting so late, so Russell is immensely proud when she goes out for cheerleading.
It’s easily apparent that Quinn is not happy, but she does make two friends—Santana and Brittany, other freshman—who come over once.
When Quinn giggles, literally, giggles, Judy thinks it’s a very, very nice noise.
In April, Quinn comes home with a C on a biology quiz. It’s not even a test, and she still has a 94% in the class, she tells them, and her big, pretty eyes fill with tears when Russell starts yelling again.
And then he does something he’s never done before: He slaps Quinn, on the cheek. Hard.
All three of them stand there stunned, and Quinn turns and races away, up the stairs. Russell clenches and unclenches his fists and then stalks off into the den.
Judy stands there for a few more minutes before pouring whiskey.
She doesn’t wonder why Frannie never comes home.
Quinn doesn’t come home the next night—Maribel calls and tells Judy that Quinn’s sleeping over—and Judy only wonders if Quinn’s cheek had bruised.
She don’t have to wonder if Quinn cried herself to sleep or not.
Quinn shows no interest in boys until Finn.
“He’s popular,” Quinn says. “A little, well, not smart, but he’s nice,” she says, and when Quinn brings Finn home, he is all of those things.
Judy sees them kiss goodnight after their date, and she just tries to tell herself that Quinn’s almost repulsed look is because it’s her first kiss and she’s not expecting how it felt.
(Judy knows she’s wrong.)
Judy knows Quinn is pregnant weeks before Finn sings in front of Russell.
She’s also been aware of what will happen for weeks, too, and she only stays in the room as Russell kicks Quinn—beautiful, sad, gentle, hurting Quinn, her daughter—out of their house because she’s afraid of Russell hurting Quinn if she leaves.
Judy thinks of Quinn all the time—worries about her—but then she catches Russell cheating, and her life becomes consumed with that.
Until Frannie calls her and yells at her, crying.
Judy watches Quinn perform the next day, and Quinn is incredible.
Quinn has Beth—a beautiful, perfect baby—and then Judy offers for Quinn to move back home.
Quinn sighs tiredly, but then she says, “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Quinn gets back in shape fast. She spends a lot of time running with Santana, or dancing with Brittany, and Judy hears her more times than not throwing up after dinner.
But Judy is good at running too, so she only tells Quinn how beautiful she looks.
One day Quinn comes home from Santana’s with four bright red, obvious hickeys on her neck, but Judy ignores those too.
Quinn gets the results from her AP Chemistry and World History exams—both 5s. Quinn gets back on the Cheerios. Quinn goes to church. Quinn brings home Sam, once. He’s a very nice, polite boy, and he and Quinn make a beautiful couple. Quinn gets straight As, even a handful of A+s here and there.
Quinn almost never smiles.
The only time Quinn really makes any noise when she’s home is when she’s in the shower, and then she sings.
Judy tries her hardest to listen, but one day Quinn sings a song so sad that it breaks Judy’s heart to listen.
(She googles the words she remembers and finds the song. It’s called “Breathe Me” by an artist called Sia, and Judy listens to it all the time, if only to remind herself that Quinn is, indeed, broken.)
Quinn only gets worse as the year goes on. She fights with Santana more often than not, and she doesn’t really have that many other people she spends time with outside of school, and Glee Club, and Cheerios, but then she and Santana and Brittany quit that, so she doesn’t even have practice anymore.
Quinn studies hard for her AP exams and the SATs and writes a lot—what she’s writing, Judy has no idea—and sometimes at dinner, Quinn will talk about Rachel, whom Judy had met only once, and very quickly, at a football game.
It’s really the only times Quinn smiles.
Judy tries not to think about what that means.
Quinn gets back with Finn so that she can win prom queen, and Judy encourages that.
There are no traces of Lucy left in Quinn tonight as she walks down the stairs, except for when Finn slips the corsage around her wrist: Her eyes are hazel, sad, intelligent; flowers clipped for show, perfect and whole and dying inexplicably quickly all at once.
When Quinn walks through the front door, back from Nationals, the words are out of Judy’s mouth before she can stop them: “Oh, Quinnie, what did you do to your hair?”
Quinn raises one singular eyebrow. “I’d say it’s fairly obvious that I cut it. And it’s nice to see you too, Mom,” she says before tugging her suitcase up the stairs.
Three days after school ends, Quinn leaves the house in a long, black skirt and a black t-shirt. She comes home that night smelling like cigarettes and swaying slightly on her feet, and the next day, when Judy gets home from work, Quinn’s short hair is pink—pink—and a little gold ring runs along one side of her nose.
It’s almost like Quinn is daring Judy: to get mad, to yell, to hit her. To make her get some help. To, at the very least, ask what’s wrong.
But instead Judy just sighs and pours herself a glass of whisky.
Quinn says, “Fuck you,” and slams the front door as she leaves.
Quinn comes home with a tattoo. Quinn smokes in the house. Quinn comes home high. Quinn comes home drunk.
It’s terrifying, watching this graceful spiral, a tornado of destruction in its wake, but Judy finds solace in the fact that Quinn always comes home.
A few weeks into school, Quinn comes down the stairs one morning in a white dress, her hair bright and blond, her nose ring removed, simple, pretty makeup on.
Judy says, “You look nice today, honey.”
Quinn blinks at her a few times before walking out of the door.
Judy hears from someone at work about Santana.
Judy takes a deep breath that night at dinner and looks at Quinn—really looks at her—and says, “How’s Santana?”
Quinn seems taken aback by the question, but she swallows her bite of food and then just bites her bottom lip. “I think she’s doing okay. I mean, it’s really tough, but I think she’s been telling the truth when I’ve asked how things are going. And her parents were—” Quinn’s breath hitches and she coughs in an attempt to cover it up— “They were wonderful.”
Judy nods. “That’s good,” Judy says.
“It is,” Quinn agrees. “Really, really good.”
Quinn doesn’t eat any more of her dinner, but Judy thinks that maybe progress counts anyway.
Quinn comes into Judy’s room late one night, disheveled in a t-shirt and underwear, just before Judy’s going to go to sleep. Quinn is crying, and she stands in front of where Judy’s sitting on the bed and says, “I really need to see someone.”
Judy’s heart rockets in her chest.
Quinn continues. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I’m—I want to get help, Mom.”
Judy nods and says, “We can do that, Quinn,” before she reaches out her arms.
Quinn sits beside Judy on the bed and sobs, grabbing onto Judy’s robe.
It feels like breaking but it feels like roots, and Judy thinks of spider plans and regrowth and the green Quinn’s eyes.
Quinn gets diagnosed with clinical depression, and she tells Judy that she’s been hurting herself for a year now.
The psychiatrist—David recommends her to Judy—is smart and patient and kind, Quinn says, and Quinn really likes her.
She prescribes anti-depressants, until Quinn gets things under control but hopefully not permanently, and the first night Quinn takes one, they make her a little drowsy.
Judy tucks her in and Quinn’s asleep almost immediately, peaceful, and it’s the first night in years and years that Judy is the one to cry herself to sleep.
After that, Judy doesn’t take another drink.
Things are going well. Quinn is talking more; Quinn is smiling and reading and writing and singing and dancing and hanging out with people she seems genuinely happy to call her friends, Santana and Brittany included. Quinn gets accepted into Yale, and they both cry when they read the letter.
Quinn is angry about Rachel, though, as she frequently tells Judy. Furious to the point that Judy knows it has less to do with marriage and more to do with Rachel being with someone else, ostensibly forever.
Judy doesn’t say anything, though, but this time it’s because Quinn deserves to come to her first.
Judy gets a call from David and her world stops. It’s as simple as that, because parents do not outlive their children, even if they do.
The first time Judy sees Quinn in the hospital she can’t even bring herself to cry because she’s so scared and sound will interrupt the beeps of the heart rate monitor, which are currently the only things that Judy believes when they tell her that Quinn is alive, because she certainly looks like she shouldn’t be.
Judy cries when David sits and gently explains that Quinn is paralyzed from the waist down, and that she might never walk again. He tells Judy that Quinn was conscious when the paramedics got to the car, that she had been aware of everything that was going on, which is worse than Judy had imagined.
But then David tells Judy that Quinn shouldn’t have survived an accident like that. He says, “But she did, and that’s something, Judy. She’s a fighter. She always has been.”
That, Judy doesn’t argue.
Maribel comes a few days after the accident, the morning that Quinn is going to be allowed to wake up. She’s been off the ventilator for a day now, but there was bleeding in her brain, so they were waiting for the swelling to go down, and the doctors don’t think there was any permanent damage.
The only way for them to know for sure, though, is for Quinn to wake up.
Santana and Brittany are there too, and they sit quietly for almost three hours before Quinn groans a little and then coughs and then wheezes and then grimaces and then opens her eyes.
They look terrified and Judy leans close and says, “Honey, you were in an accident, but you’re in the hospital and you’re safe, okay? Everything’s okay, Quinnie.”
Judy test is tight and her palms are sweating profusely, but then Quinn gives a minute nod and sucks in a painful breath before says, “Okay, Mom,” before closing her eyes again.
The doctors come and wake her up a few more times, ask her simple questions that Quinn answers groggily and slowly but correctly.
Maribel smiles and squeezes Judy’s hand, and Santana and Brittany hug.
Quinn’s eyes haven’t really changed at all, and for the first time in four days, Judy breathes.
Judy has to help Quinn with everything when Quinn goes home, and it makes her sad to see Quinn hurting and frustrated, but she doesn’t actually mind.
Quinn is a vastly interesting and complex person, Judy comes to discover within a few weeks. And smart, with knowledge of films—Quinn calls movies ‘films’ now—and philosophy, science and history.
Quinn is also funny, with a wicked sense of humor and a silly laugh.
Judy doesn’t know how she possibly let herself miss these things, but she’s so glad she got a chance to find them.
Some days Quinn works too hard. Some days she pulls muscles that she can’t quite feel yet and only notices when she wakes up the next morning in agony. She gets pneumonia once, and some of her incisions are painful.
But then Quinn takes one step exactly fifty-two days after the accident. It’s on a Saturday afternoon, and Quinn is wearing one of Frannie’s Stanford t-shirts, and Judy is there to see it.
Quinn is exhausted for the rest of the day, but she can’t stop smiling.
Judy’s sure her face is only a mirror.
They celebrate Mother’s Day quietly, but together, because Judy doesn’t believe in running anymore.
Quinn calls her from Chicago, saying they won Nationals and that she danced everything perfectly. Quinn sounds so happy that it makes Judy cry.
Quinn is valedictorian. In her speech, she talks about Narnia, and Judy is certain that somewhere, Lucy is incredibly thankful.
Quinn comes home excitedly one day. “Rachel and Finn broke up,” she squeals, hugging Judy happily.
Judy laughs. “You seem very sympathetic.”
Quinn clears her throat and straightens her dress, but then she breaks out into a smile again. “Good thing I saved money for those train passes.”
“It is good,” Judy says.
Quinn beams, and Judy decides that if someone can make her daughter—broken, sad, shy Quinn—happy like that, she will love them forever too.
Russell calls in July, when Quinn is outside with Santana and Brittany, splashing around in the pool happily.
Judy lets it go to voicemail and keeps stirring the lemonade. It tastes perfect.
Quinn leaves that August, bright and completely different than Judy’s ever seen her. There’s something that’s simpler about her, something that makes Judy think that, in the best way possible, Quinn’s stopped having to live in other people’s stories.
Now she just gets to live in her own.
Quinn tells her that November—over Christmas break. She sits down and takes both of Judy’s hands and very solemnly says, “I love you.” And then she says, “I’m gay.”
Judy just squeezes Quinn’s hands and hugs her tightly, because she’s determined not to make mistakes again, and Quinn is incredible. “It’s okay,” Judy says, and she feels as Quinn’s entire body shakes with a sob. “I love you. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
Judy really does mean every word.
Quinn finally—it’s been five years now, since they met, Judy knows—brings Rachel home over Christmas break. They hold hands and share chaste kisses but mainly just laugh and tease each other, and then one day Santana and Brittany come over too.
Judy sits in the kitchen, reading, as they play Monopoly, and Quinn wins because she cheats—Judy knows Quinn always cheats—and then Rachel, Santana, and Brittany laugh as Quinn volunteers to get up to make hot chocolate.
Quinn’s cut her hair since she went to Yale—it’s short again, as short as when Quinn came back from Nationals in New York, and Judy had noticed earlier—and Judy tucks a strand behind Quinn’s ear as Quinn reaches for the mugs.
“I like your hair like this,” Judy says.
Quinn smiles. “Thanks.”
Judy pats Quinn’s back gently. “You know, no one in the entire world is like you.”
Quinn hugs Judy tightly then, suddenly.
Judy says, “I’m so glad you’re my daughter.”
Quinn sniffles a little but then she takes a step back and she’s smiling when she says, “I’m so glad you’re my mom.”
Quinn’s eyes—Lucy’s eyes—are a jungle, snared and thick and almost impenetrable (except for the spaces that Rachel knows, and Judy loves her for that), full of color and interest and life.
Judy thinks that that’s the most beautiful solidarity she’s ever known.
title. “i was meant for the stage” by the decemberists.
quote. “sloom” by of monsters and men.
one. the absolutely true diary of a part-time indian by sherman alexie.
two. invisible monsters by chuck palahniuk.