The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Three

(Amelia's POV)

Mornings in Rosebury arrive slow, like the tide—soft light spilling through the curtains, the hush of a town not in a rush to wake.

I don’t usually rush either, not when I’m working from home. Most days, Isla is right there with me—perched on the floor beside my desk, humming nonsense songs while drawing squiggles with my old markers. We have our rhythm, her and I. A gentle sort of chaos. Familiar, quiet, ours.

But not today.

Today, I’ve got a meeting. One of those rare days where I have to be somewhere else—to look like someone who has her life together. And as much as I’d rather have her curled beside me while I sketch out forest scenes and flying foxes, work waits.

So we’re in a bit of a hurry—the warm, soft kind where I still take too long zipping her coat because I don’t want to stop kissing her hair.

“Boo socks or peenk?” Isla mumbles, holding out her little feet.

“Blue or pink?” I echo, crouching beside her with both pairs in my hands.

She taps the blue ones with a chubby finger. “Boo,” she says, then tilts her head. “Bunny shirt too, mama.”

That word still catches in my chest. She’s been calling me that since she could speak—mama, in her tiny way—and every time, something in me folds a little softer. I’ve never corrected her. I don’t know if I ever will.

The bunny shirt is, of course, her favorite. Faded from too many washes, but she insists it makes her faster on the playground.

We dress together—her giggling when I tickle her toes, me tucking her wild curls behind her ears. She smells like sleep and strawberries.

Packing her lunch is a whole ritual. She insists on choosing everything herself—apple slices shaped like moons, two crackers (but only the square ones), and a single piece of chocolate she pretends not to want, just so I’ll pretend to sneak it in.

I fold a napkin and draw a cat face with sleepy eyes and a long tail. I do it every morning, and every morning she gasps like it’s brand new.

“You do kitty, mama!”

“I do kitty,” I smile, sliding the napkin into her lunchbox.

She claps like I’ve done something spectacular. And maybe, to her, I have.

Somewhere between making her peanut butter stars and brushing her tiny teeth, I catch myself in the kettle’s reflection. I look tired. Soft. Human. I haven’t even brushed my hair yet. I don’t mind.

This is the version of me that feels most like myself.

And yet, I’m always balancing. Illustrator. Children’s book author. Provider. Parent, though I’ve never said the word aloud—not in a way that truly admits it. Aunt, yes. Technically. But Isla doesn’t know that. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

“Weddy, mama?” Isla says, arms lifted for her coat.

“Almost,” I whisper, crouching to help her into it. She’s warm and wiggly and distractingly cute. “We’re going to Miss Halley’s today.”

She frowns a little. “No work. Stay mama.”

“I wish I could, baby,” I say, brushing her cheek. “Just for a little while. Then I’ll come get you, and we can draw cats together.”

She leans forward and plants a slightly sticky kiss on my nose.

Then, with all the seriousness in her three-year-old heart, she presses a crumpled daisy into my palm.