I tried.
It caught halfway.
“Again,” she said. “Slow.”
I exhaled in a shaky rush.
“Good,” she murmured. “Now out.”
It took several tries before my lungs cooperated.
And then, suddenly.
she stepped forward and pulled me into a quick, tight hug.
I froze.
Not because I didn’t want it. but because I wanted her too much.
“Emma is okay,” she whispered. “She’s in pain, but she’s okay. You’re not losing anyone today.”
Something in my chest eased, just a small click, like a lock shifting.
I didn’t hug her back, not fully.
But I leaned into the steadiness she offered for just a second.
Then she pulled back, eyes scanning my face. “Can you drive now?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
“Go,” she said gently. “I’ve got Lily.”
I managed a shaky “Thank you,” before focusing on Mom again.
The whole thing lasted barely two minutes. But it stayed with me the entire drive to the hospital.
???
Mom’s foot was broken. Clean break, cast set, orders to keep off it for weeks. Dad stayed with her overnight. I brought Lily home and did my best.
My best, it turned out, wasn’t always enough.
Lily was patient, but kids know when adults are overwhelmed. She clung to me more, asked more questions, needed more reassurance than I knew how to give.
The first evening alone with her, I burned pasta so badly the smoke alarm chirped once in warning.
She looked at the pot, then at me, and said very gently, “Maybe Claire can help?”
Which was exactly when Claire let herself in through the back door like she’d been doing for years.
She looked around, took in the chaos, the pot, my face, Lily’s worried expression and didn’t judge any of it.
“I’ll cook,” she said simply.
And that was that.
???
