The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Three

“For you, mama.”

And just like that, everything else fades—the meeting, the deadlines, the inbox. The world gets smaller, quieter. There’s only her, and the tiny warm weight of her trust.

The walk to the daycare takes seven minutes. Ten, if Isla insists on stopping to wave at every cat, flower, or interesting rock along the way. This morning, she skips beside me, humming something that sounds like a lullaby tangled in raindrops.

She holds my hand with one sticky mitten. The other holds her crumpled daisy bouquet—three bent stems and one petalless bloom. She’s saving them for Miss Halley, she says.

We round the corner, and the little cottage-turned-daycare comes into view, its picket fence laced with ivy and crayon artwork taped inside the windows. There’s already laughter drifting out from the backyard, high-pitched and sweet.

Miss Halley stands at the gate, exactly where she always does. Warm smile, cardigan sleeves pushed up, silver hair pinned in a careful twist. She’s the kind of woman who remembers every child’s birthday and cuts toast into heart shapes.

“Good morning, my darling girls,” she calls, crouching just a little as Isla barrels into her like a soft cannonball.

“Fwowers,” Isla announces, pushing the daisy stems into her hands.

“Oh, these are beautiful, my love,” Miss Halley says, clutching them to her chest like a royal bouquet. “They’ll go straight into the vase by the snack table.”

Isla beams. “I gived dem.”

“You did. You’re so kind.”

I crouch, brushing Isla’s curls back one last time. “Be good, baby.”

She nods solemnly, then throws her arms around my neck in a hug that’s always too tight and too short. “Wuv you, mama.”

It’s always those three words. Small. Sticky. World-tilting.

“I love you too, my moon flower,” I whisper against her cheek.

And then she’s off—toddling toward the other children, yelling something about jelly sandwiches and her bunny shirt.

Miss Halley touches my arm gently. “She’ll be just fine. Go do your brilliant things.”

I nod, smiling. “Thanks.”

But as I walk away, my chest tugs like someone’s tied a string to my ribs.

I always feel it. That tiny wrench when I leave her here, even though I trust Miss Halley more than most people in my life. Even though I know Isla is safe and smiling and probably already drawing cats on the snack table. It’s the letting go, I think. The part that still feels unnatural.

I zip my coat tighter, bury my hands in the pockets, and keep walking.

Guilt is like fog in this town—light, ever-present, and easy to pretend it’s not there if you squint the right way.

By the time I reach the cottage, the morning chill has crept beneath my coat, clinging to the edges of my sleeves and thoughts. I linger on the porch just a moment—hand resting on the doorknob, listening to the quietness inside.

The house always feels different without Isla in it. Not lonely, exactly, but... quieter than it should be. Like it’s waiting.

I toe off my boots, shrug out of my coat, and move through the rooms that still hum with her presence—her little shoes by the mat, her drawings scattered across the coffee table, the faint echo of her voice in every hallway.