—J.
The next morning, Evie stirred against me, her curls tangled, her stuffed duck tucked under her chin. I hadn’t slept much. I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel. I wanted to be angry at Jess—but I didn’t know how.
Instead, I felt like I’d failed everyone.
“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked sleepily.
“She had to go somewhere,” I said softly. “But I’m right here.”
She didn’t reply—just pressed her cheek against my chest.
Later, I sat on the edge of the bed and removed my prosthetic. My stump throbbed, skin red and tender. I reached for the ointment.
Evie climbed up beside me.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“A little.”
