The morning Ava got sick began like every other ordinary weekday, and maybe that’s why the memory still haunts me so badly.
Nothing felt dangerous.
Nothing felt final.
My four-year-old sat at the kitchen counter in pink pajamas swinging her legs while making her stuffed rabbit “talk” to me in a squeaky little voice
“Mommy,” she announced seriously through Mr. Bun-Bun, “you work too much.”
I laughed despite the stress crushing my chest.
“Well, Mr. Bun-Bun should get a job and help pay bills.”
Ava burst into giggles so hard she nearly dropped her fork.
I remember thinking how alive she sounded.
