The only way it doesn't hurt

Part One

Getting her into clothes is more of a waltz than a routine—limbs flailing, laughter erupting when I tickle her sides. Her giggles echo through the small cottage, loud and full, the kind of sound that heals something in me I don’t talk about.

She plops on the floor cross-legged as I brush her curls. Wild, sunlit spirals that never obey. I spritz a little water to tame them, and she winces dramatically.

“Cold!”

“Oh, dramatic,” I tease, smiling. “

In the kitchen, I slice tiny triangles of toast and add a handful of berries to her little fox-printed plate. Isla hums to herself on the stool, kicking her feet and babbling about “flowers at Miss Halley’s” and a new book from daycare.

She says "mama" again between bites, just casually, like it’s always been my name. And maybe it has, in this life we’ve built. Maybe love has no use for the technicalities of blood.

I watch her chew, her small mouth sticky with berry juice. My chest tightens. There’s no one here to see how much I love her, how I orbit her without even trying. And yet I do it every day.

These tiny rituals—choosing socks, brushing curls, breakfast berries—they’re more than just tasks.

They’ve become the way I hold the pieces of my life together.

The way I remind myself that I stayed. That I fought for something gentle, even after everything.

We step out into the soft breath of morning, the air in Rosebury kissed with salt and the faintest promise of spring.

Isla tugs my hand eagerly, her boots thudding against the cobbled path. She's still humming—half a tune, half nonsense—and it’s music I’ve come to treasure more than anything polished or rehearsed.

The village unfolds before us like something out of a children’s book. Stone cottages, each with their own garden secrets. Pastel shutters, hand-painted signs. Ivy clings to stone like it, too, has chosen to settle and stay.

“Flowies!” Isla squeals, pointing with dramatic enthusiasm as we near the florist.

Mrs. Elkins is already outside her shop, arranging peonies in tin buckets. Her apron is smudged with earth and petals, as always, and her smile widens when she sees us.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite morning girls,” she calls.

Isla tugs at my sleeve, barely containing her bounce. I nod to Mrs. Elkins, who leans over and plucks a single daisy from the bucket beside her.

“For you, Miss Sunshine,” she says, handing it to Isla with a wink.

Isla gasps like she’s just been knighted. “Tank you, Miss Ekkins!” she says with all the importance of a queen.

I mouth a quiet thank you of my own as Isla cradles the flower in both hands like a sacred offering.

We continue past the bakery where the scent of cinnamon rolls tries to tempt me—again. A pair of older men sitting on the bench wave. I nod back, clutching Isla’s little hand in mine.

There’s something about this place. Not perfect. Not loud or exciting. But kind. Honest.

It took me time to trust it, to stop flinching when the doorbell rang or someone spoke too kindly. But Rosebury didn’t demand anything from me. It let me arrive in pieces. Let me patch myself up with paint, and paper, and small things.

Like a daisy in Isla’s hand.

Like neighbors who remember your name and ask nothing in return.

We pass the bookshop, the grocer, the small art café that always smells of lavender and pencil shavings. Isla skips along beside me, her curls bouncing, the daisy now tucked behind her ear like a crown.