Uncovered Secret: Taylor Swift Has A Daughter - Fanfiction

Chapter 20: Home

Author's note: im running out of ideas for the story - please leave some comments. can be cute, dramatic etc Bridget still goes to school but unsure what to do about that, bullying or somethin? Please give your suggestions and thank you for support 🤍🤍

I didn't sleep. All I could think about was Bridget. As soon as it was an appropriate time, I left the house and drove by myself to my mother's house. I entered without saying a word. Mom's been expecting me, giving me a hug, which felt like an instant relief.
"She's in the living room," she whispered in my ear, knowing what I wanted to hear the most. I took a deep breath and let go of my mom's embrace. It was time to be the grown up.
The morning light spilled into my mother's living room, a soft glow that wrapped around Bridget like a gentle embrace. She was curled up in my mom's oversized armchair, a fortress of blankets piled around her. I paused at the doorway, watching her, a pang of maternal guilt washing over me. She looked so much like the little girl who once believed I could fix anything. I missed that innocence.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, my approach cautious. "Bee?" My voice was laced with a tentative hope, fearful of shattering the fragile peace.

She peeked out from her cocoon, her eyes wary yet hopeful. "Hey, Mom."

I knelt beside her, the distance of the previous night already feeling like a chasm we had crossed. "I'm sorry," I started, my words thick with emotion. "I should have listened...."

She unfolded from the chair, the blankets falling away, and reached for my hand. "It's not just you," she whispered, her grip tight. "I freaked out. I shouldn't have run away."

My mother hovered in the background, her presence a silent support. She offered us tea, and with each sip, the warmth seemed to seep deeper, beyond our bodies and into our relationship, sealing the cracks with understanding and forgiveness.

Sitting across from Bridget, with a steaming mug of tea cradled in my hands, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "You know, Bee, I used to dream about the things we'd talk about when you got older," I said, a small smile playing on my lips.

She mirrored my smile, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Like what? My terrible taste in music or my inevitable Nobel Prize?"

I chuckled, the sound mingling with the soft clink of our mugs. "Definitely the Nobel Prize. But I was thinking more along the lines of how many times we could watch 'Gilmore Girls' before we actually turned into Rory and Lorelai."

Bridget's laughter filled the room, a melody that seemed to heal every crack in my heart. "Mom, we passed that threshold years ago. You're totally a Lorelai."

I raised an eyebrow playfully. "Does that make you my Rory, then? Because I remember a certain someone declaring they were Team Jess, and I'm not sure I can support such questionable choices."

"Hey!" she protested, the warmth in her voice belying the mock indignation on her face. "Jess was the intellectual match Rory needed. But if we're choosing teams, I'd say you're definitely Team Luke. And you can't judge me for questionable choices considering who I met last night."

I faked offense, placing a hand over my heart. "Fine fine, no judging. I'll have you know, I am totally Team Coffee. But speaking of teams, I think we make a pretty great one ourselves, even when we stumble."

Bridget nodded, her hand finding mine across the table. "Yeah, we do. And for the record, I'd choose you as my teammate any day, Nobel Prize or not."

The banter felt like coming home, a reminder that no matter what life threw at us, we'd face it together, with humor and heart. It was in these moments, simple and true, that I found the greatest joy of being her mother.

As we sat there, Bridget's head resting on my shoulder, I realized that this was what home felt like. It wasn't a place or a time; it was this feeling of being understood, of being forgiven, of being unconditionally loved. And I knew, no matter the mistakes we made or the words we let slip in anger, this—this unbreakable bond—was the real heart of our story.