Be normal.
Be a mother again.
My gaze catches on Nico’s toy car sitting near the edge of the wood. The little boss car. The one he left behind. And it hits me, sudden and sharp:
We didn’t just cross a line.
We burned it down.
And there’s no going back.
Not now. Not with our son sleeping down the hall. Not with danger circling outside. Not with my body still remembering his hands like they were home.
I step closer and touch the toy car with one finger, like it might bite. Like it might accuse me. I don’t move it. I can’t. I press my palm to the desk to steady myself.
Then I whisper into the empty room, to the car, to the walls, to the version of me that still thinks safety can be earned by staying small:
“What have I done?”
And the terrifying part is, I already know the answer.
Something I can’t undo.
Something I don’t regret.
