She didn’t reply—just pressed her cheek against my chest.
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my prosthetic. My stump throbbed, skin red and tender. I reached for the ointment.
Evie climbed up beside me.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“A little.”
“Do you want me to blow on it?” she offered. “Mommy does that for me.”
“Yeah,” I said with a small smile. “That’d help.”
She placed her stuffed duck next to my leg like it needed comfort too, then curled into me, fitting exactly where she always had.
We stayed like that for a while.
That afternoon, Evie sat on the living room rug, brushing her doll’s hair. My hands shook as I braided hers.
“Mommy might not come back for a bit,” I told her gently. “But we’ll be okay.”
“I know,” she said simply. “You’re here.”
Sunlight spilled across her face, warm and soft.
She was still here. And I wasn’t leaving.
We were smaller now—but we were still a family. And I would learn how to hold us together, even with one hand missing.
