The morning Ava got sick began like every other ordinary weekday, and maybe that’s why the memory still haunts me so badly.
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.”
Ava lifted Mr. Bun-Bun proudly.
“Daddy can do it!”
I kissed the top of her head.
“I’ll pick you up later, okay?”
“Can we get nuggets after?”
“You already know the answer.”
“Yessss!”
