“Are you hurting?” Brooklyn asked, her crayon stopping an inch above the paper.

“I’m fine,” I said, making my shoulders drop an inch.

“I just moved a little too fast.”

“Daddy said you have a big Band-Aid on your belly,” she whispered, leaning closer to look at my waist.

“It’s a very big Band-Aid,” I said, easing my back flat against the stiff couch cushion.

I glanced down at my lap, where my fingernails were digging into the scratchy blue cotton blanket.

Every small movement felt like tugging on a fresh stitch, a reminder that my body had been sliced open only forty-eight hours earlier.