That was the last time I believed either of them about anything.
“I only talked to them once after that,” I murmur, staring at the floor. “Just once.”
Erin squeezes my hand gently. “I’m sorry, Hildy.”
Lucy. A child born out of lies, irresponsibility, and selfishness. A child who still didn’t deserve any of this. I press my palm to my chest, breathing shallow, grief and anger tangling together in my ribs.
“She’s asking for you,” Erin says softly. “They told her that her big sister was coming. She asked,she really is?”
My heart cracks clean down the middle.
Erin leads us to the last door on the left, her hand lingering on the handle before she opens it slowly. I’m not ready, but my feet move anyway, carrying me forward like they knew this moment was inevitable.
And then I see her.
Small. Fragile. Curled up in a bed that’s too big for her, surrounded by stiff white sheets and machines that beep softly like they’re keeping time with her breathing.
My heart stops. She looks like me. Not just a little. Not vaguely. It’s like someone pulled a photograph from my childhood and laid it in that hospital bed. Same red hair, a bit lighter and very tangled. Same pale skin, marred by angry scrapes and bruises. One eye swollen, dark, and purple, with a shadow blooming across her cheek that will be unable to hide. Tiny cuts dot her chin and forehead. Her arm is wrapped, wrist in a cast far bulkier than it should be for something that small.
I can’t breathe.
I’m staring at the child I used to be. The one who waited. The one who learned not to expect rescue because it never came. The one who decided they’d had enough when her grandmother’s boyfriend tried to slide into her bed.
Her eyes flutter open.
Green. Bright even through pain.
She studies me for a second, like she’s checking whether I match the story she’s been told about me.
Then her lips tremble into the smallest, bravest smile I have ever seen.
Her voice hoarse and shaking, she says, “I thought you were just a story.”My chest caves in.“But you came.” Her little hand reaches toward me, shaky but determined. “Can I come with you?”
The question slices straight through every wall I built to survive.
I step closer, tears blurring everything, my hand wrapping gently around hers. Warm. Real. Alive.
“Yes,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Yes, Lucy, you can.”
She tries to get up, and Erin laughs. “You can’t leave yet, the doctors and nurses have to make sure you’re okay.”
Her lip trembles as she looks from her to me, “Are you going to leave?”
I don’t even think before I move. I slip off my shoes, climb carefully onto the edge of the narrow hospital bed, and gather Lucy against me like I’ve known her my whole life.
She fits into my arms so easily, small and warm and trembling, her head tucked under my chin as if it always belonged there.
Her body shakes for a minute, silent tears soaking into my sweater, her tiny fingers clutching the fabric like she’s afraid I might disappear if she loosens her grip.
“I’m right here,” I whisper into her hair, rocking her gently. “You’re safe.”
Her breathing slows. The tightness in her little shoulders softens. She presses closer, cast awkward between us, and I hold her carefully around it, one hand smoothing her back in slow circles the way I used to wish someone had done for me.
Within minutes, exhaustion wins. Her lashes rest against bruised cheeks, mouth parted slightly as she drifts off, still clinging to me. Like letting go isn’t an option.
My heart aches so deeply it’s physically painful.
Erin waits until Lucy’s breathing deepens before stepping closer, voice low and gentle.
