The only way it doesn't hurt

Part One

And as I watch her, her hand warm in mine, I think—I never expected to love a place like this. I never expected to be someone like this.

But Rosebury became home not all at once, but in layers. In good mornings and flowers and neighbors who knew when not to ask.

It healed me quietly.

And I let it.

We returned home just as the light turned syrupy through the front windows—thick golden ribbons pouring across the rug, slipping between the folds of Isla’s little backpack as she dragged it in with both hands.

“Home, mama,” she said proudly, stretching the word like a song.

I smiled softly and nodded, locking the door behind us. “Yes, darling. Home.”

There’s something about the way the light falls in Rosebury afternoons. Like it knows how to wrap itself around silence. Like it doesn’t rush. It waits. It understands.

Isla plopped herself down in her usual spot by the low shelf near the fireplace, surrounded by her crayons and sketchbook, already humming again. Her daisy lay on the table now, half-wilted, but she didn’t seem to mind. She took a thick red crayon in hand, as if the world needed color urgently and only she could deliver it.

I moved toward the kitchen nook, where my iPad and sketch journal still waited on the table. Half-drunk tea. A pencil tucked behind my ear. Two pages of scribbled lines and washed-out watercolor foxes that I hadn’t touched since last night.

I settled into my seat slowly, letting myself fall back into the stillness.

The house creaked softly, content.

I opened my journal, flipping past character notes and bits of dialogue that had come to me between loads of laundry and grocery lists. There she was again—the girl in the yellow boots with the wild hair and the curious eyes. My newest story. My quiet little girl who loved garden creatures and chased the wind like it owed her secrets. I didn’t have a name for her yet. But she was already real in the way only illustrations could make someone real.

As I worked—shading, softening lines, layering watercolor blooms—I found myself breathing deeper. This wasn’t just a story I was building. It was refuge. It always had been.

Writing, drawing, dreaming…it saved me.

When everything else broke, when my chest was a locked room of grief, confusion, fear—this was what let the air in.

This was how I remembered softness.

I glanced at Isla. Her curls had fallen into her eyes again as she drew. She looked up at me just then, as if sensing my gaze.

“Fox, mama,” she announced, pointing to a wobbly orange shape on her page. “Like yous.”

I laughed gently. “Yes, baby. Like mine.”

Her smile made something bloom in my ribs.

Sometimes it frightened me how natural it had all become—how easily Isla filled every space in my life, how fully I loved her as my own. Because she is. In all the ways that matter, she is.

It’s been three years since Bristol.

I didn’t think the words. I felt them. Heavy, but no longer sharp.

I didn’t let the memories rise just then. Not the cold white hospital room. Not the phone call. Not the way the city pressed against my ribs like it wanted to hollow me out.

No.

Instead, I focused on the soft sound of Isla humming again. I dipped my brush in water and pulled a sky across the page—gentle and cloudless.

This was where we are now.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting long, honeyed shadows through the kitchen window as I stirred the soup gently, the wooden spoon knocking softly against the pot. The scent of garlic, rosemary, and carrots filled the small space, comforting in a way only simple things could be.

“Stir, mama?” Isla stood on her little stool beside me, her hands already reaching for the spoon.

I smiled and let her wrap her fingers around the handle, steadying it with mine. “Okay, gentle now,” I whispered.

She stirred with a clumsy sort of determination, her tiny tongue poking from the corner of her lips, brow furrowed with focus. The wooden spoon sloshed against the side of the pot, some soup sloshing just a bit, but I didn’t mind. The floor could be wiped. This, though—this moment—was fleeting.

“Smells yumm,” she said proudly, beaming up at me.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I leaned down and kissed her curls. “Because you helped.”

There was a quiet magic in these evenings. When the world narrowed to warm food, soft music, and the sound of little feet padding across the floor. When time felt suspended between one heartbeat and the next.

After dinner, we cleaned up together—her more play than help, but I cherished it all the same. I guided her to the bathroom, and she stood on tiptoe to brush her teeth, bubbles of minty paste on her nose and chin. She giggled as I wiped her clean, declaring, “Mama, I’m shiny!”

“You’re perfect,” I told her honestly.

She chose her bunny pajamas—the ones with the floppy ears on the hood—and I tugged them over her head as she wriggled like a fish. The bedtime story came next. Always a ritual, always a comfort.

Tonight, she picked one of mine.

My voice was soft as I read, letting the cadence curl around her like a lullaby. She leaned into me, her thumb in her mouth, eyelids fluttering.

As the story ended, I looked down at her. Her breathing had evened out, her head heavy on my arm. A wild curl stuck to her cheek, and I gently brushed it back.

There are moments that feel like prayers.

This was one of them.

I stayed beside her longer than I needed to. Just… watching. Listening. Memorizing.

I never expected to raise a child. And certainly not like this. Not with such a sharp beginning—such a sudden grief wrapped inside a blessing. But the world doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just hands you what’s left and tells you to make it something whole again.

And I did. Somehow, I did.

Isla is safe. With me. That’s all that matters.

And yet…

Even in this peace, something flickers just under the calm. A shadow at the edge of contentment. Not fear, not really. More like memory. Or a whisper of something unfinished.

“Rosebury gave me quiet,” I think, gently folding Isla’s blanket over her small frame. “But quiet doesn’t mean forgetting.”

I turn off the light and pause at the door, looking back one last time. Then I step into the hush of the hallway, closing the door behind me like an exhale.