The only way it doesn't hurt

Part One

Amelia's POV

Some mornings feel like memories before they're even over.

This one—wrapped in that early hush where the sunlight threads through the linen curtains and brushes soft across the wooden floors—feels like that. A quiet breath held by the sky itself, and for a moment, everything is still. Peaceful. Honest.

She’s here beside me—Isla. Her breath is warm against my arm, curls tangled and golden like the morning itself. One of her legs is flung over my waist like she climbed a mountain in her dreams and decided I was the last step. I don’t move. Not yet. These are the minutes I want to bottle. The weight of her tiny body pressed against mine, the heat between our skin, the way sleep still clings to her like morning fog.

Rosebury wakes slow. It doesn’t scream like Bristol. There are no honking cars or shouting neighbors, no buses trundling past cracked sidewalks. Here, it’s birdsong and the scent of damp earth, windows creaking open to let in salt air, the occasional bark of a dog three cottages down. I never thought I’d live in a place like this. I never thought I’d want to. But three years can undo so many things you once clung to.

My hand finds her curls. She shifts, nose scrunching, and a tiny hum comes from her mouth—half dream, half waking. I comb her hair gently with my fingers. It’s unruly like mine, but wilder, softer. It always makes me smile, this impossible little head of golden fluff. She calls me "mom" in her baby lilt. “Mummah,” like a sigh. Like something she was born knowing.

I press my lips to her forehead. Her skin is warm, sweet with sleep.

I used to dread mornings. The way they demanded things from you—be awake, be functional, be busy. Now, they feel like a secret shared only between the two of us. A soft agreement that nothing needs to rush. Not yet.

Maybe that’s what Rosebury gave me. Not just safety. Not just quiet.

But mornings I no longer want to run from.

“Mummah…”

It comes out as a breathy little groan, muffled against the quilt. I turn my head to see her squinting at the ceiling, still curled into her blanket like a cinnamon bun. Her cheeks are flushed with warmth, hair a golden tangle that defies gravity in every direction.

“Mornin’, my little baby,” I whisper.

She blinks slowly, then reaches one chubby hand toward me, fingers opening and closing. A wordless request. I pull her close again for a second, just a second, before the world needs us to move.

“Up we go,” I say, shifting her onto my hip with practiced ease. She yawns dramatically, head flopping onto my shoulder like she’s already had a long day. I smile into her curls.

The bathroom light is soft, almost golden. Isla stares at herself in the mirror while I wet her little toothbrush. She’s always been fascinated by reflections—by her own sleepy face or the way bubbles stick to her nose. I hand her the brush, and she stabs it vaguely toward her mouth.

“Brushy teeth, beeep beep,” she says, like she’s singing.

“That’s right,” I giggle, crouching beside her. “Brushy teeth for shiny smiles.”

She brushes for all of ten seconds before losing interest and offering me the brush with a proud “Done!”

We move to her wardrobe next—an explosion of colors and textures. She chooses socks that don’t match and a jumper with a fox on it, proudly holding it to her chest.

“This one!” she declares with absolute certainty.

“Perfect,” I nod. “The fox is always a good idea.”