Estela
Turning to face Paisley, I see her sitting up in bed, her green eyes wide but still hazy with sleep. It’s the first time since the surgery that she seems truly lucid, and I have to fight every protective instinct in me not to immediately start questioning her about who visited before the anesthesia kicked in.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I greet her, crossing the room to sit on the edge of her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Funny,” Paisley replies with a yawn. “Why were you saying bad words, Mommy?”
I brush her hair gently away from her face and offer a crooked smile. “I was feeling a little out of sorts,” I admit. “But I shouldn’t have said those things.”
Paisley leans in, cupping a tiny hand over her mouth as she whispers conspiratorially, “I’ve heard Daddy say some of those words, too.”
