The sight of her clutching that doll stopped me cold, like my heart had been caught mid-beat. Such an ordinary toy, yet in her small hands it meant everything.
I envied the doll for being what I could not—present, steady, untouched by scars. Myra deserved a mother who braided her hair, kissed her knees, whispered secrets not laced with war. Instead, she clung to a chipped smile because it reminded her of the only woman who had shown her tenderness.
Guilt or buried ache—I couldn’t tell. But it cut deep. I had given her protection, tutors, every comfort. And still, none of it could replace what she reached for now.
It wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
“Do you like her that much?” I asked, keeping my tone light.
Myra nodded solemnly. “She’s pretty. And she looks like she’d listen
