I Move My Feet
I crouched down and smiled. “It’s your choice, Mia.”
Those two words — your choice — had become the most valuable currency in her recovery.
Her face lit up. She let go of my jeans and ran into the yard, straight into the leaves.
From the kitchen window, Daniel watched his daughter disappear into a pile of red and gold. “She’s healing,” he said, sliding an arm around my waist.
I leaned into him. “So are you.”
Across the dining room, Mark handed out plates while Claire poured cider, their conversation ordinary and undefended. It wasn’t a perfect scene. It was a real one.
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