“Time for a bath,” I say, closing my laptop.
“Can Faulker read with us?” she asks, sliding off the couch.
“I’d love to. Let me know when you’re done with your bath.” I give her braid a gentle tug.
I run the bath while Lucy trails behind me, narrating every step. She’s memorized the routine, and I hope that she’s never afraid it could all be gone in a blink of her now soft and sweet, unbruised and less guarded green eyes.
The water fills the tub with a steady rush, steam curling up toward the ceiling, and I make sure the bag we use over her cast is secure so it doesn’t get wet.
She insists on testing it herself, dipping one finger in, then another. “Needs more warm.”
I add a little hot and she nods, satisfied.
She picks the bubbles tonight. Lavender, the soft kind that smells like bedtime instead of playtime. Then the shampoo, her current favorite, the one that smells the same.
She presses the bottle to her nose, inhales deeply. “This one. This one makes my hair happy.”
I help her out of her clothes and she steps into the tub without hesitation. She sinks down slowly, watching the bubbles climb up her stomach, then grins at me.
“My belly’s full,” she announces. “Like, really full.”
I smile, kneeling beside the tub. “That’s a good thing.”
She nods seriously. “No more bear in my belly tonight.”
The words land gently. No growl. No ache. No hunger before bed because no one cared that she was full.
I wash her hair carefully, tipping her head back, shielding her eyes with my hand. She hums while I rinse, our song, Home. When I wrap her in a towel afterward, she leans into me, warm and heavy and boneless in that way kids only are when they feel safe.
Night clothes are chosen, the soft cotton ones with the tiny stars, sleeves a little too long, pants she insists on rolling once at the ankles herself and thick soft socks, two of course and one will be found somewhere when we make the bed in the morning. She climbs onto the stool at the sink so she can brush her teeth, watching herself in the mirror like she’s checking that everything is still where it should be.
“All clean,” she says when she’s done. “Ready for stories.”
We step out into her room and she asks, “Can Faulker come now?”
I nod and open the door.
Lucy climbs into bed on her knees, rearranging her pillows with purpose while I pull the blankets up around her. She settles back against the headboard, already reaching for the book like it belongs there, like it always has.
Faulker sits on the edge of the bed, clears his throat, glances at Lucy. “You ready?”
She nods, serious. “You gotta do the voices.”
He smiles at that and starts reading, slow and deliberate, letting the rhythm do most of the work. Lucy points as he goes, tapping the page when something feels important.
“That’s the bunny,” she says, even though no one asked.
He nods like this is critical information.
When he gets to the quiet parts, the room seems to follow along. The light is low. The house has settled. I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching the way Lucy’s body softens with each page, how her breathing slows without her noticing.
“Goodnight stars,” Lucy murmurs before he can finish the line.
“And the air,” she adds thoughtfully. “And the house.”
Faulker pauses, then reads on, folding her additions in without missing a beat. When he reaches the end, Lucy sighs, long and content, like something has clicked into place.
“One more thing,” she says, eyes already half-closed.
