The morning Ava got sick began like every other ordinary weekday, and maybe that’s why the memory still haunts me so badly ucrm.
Nothing felt dangerous.
Nothing felt final.
My four-year-old sat at the kitchen counter in pink pajamas swinging her legs while making her stuffed rabbit “talk” to me in a squeaky little voice
“Mommy,” she announced seriously through Mr. Bun-Bun, “you work too much.”
I laughed despite the stress crushing my chest.
“Well, Mr. Bun-Bun should get a job and help pay bills.”
Ava burst into giggles so hard she nearly dropped her fork.
I remember thinking how alive she sounded.
How safe.
How normal.
That morning, I was supposed to take her to daycare like I always did, but my office moved an important meeting earlier at the last minute.
Before I could panic, my husband grabbed his keys from the counter.
“I’ll take her,” Mark said casually. “It’s on my way.”
“You sure?”
“Emily, it’s daycare drop-off. Not brain surgery.”
