°Amy’s POV°
Saturday mornings were supposed to feel lazy — pancakes, sunlight sneaking through curtains, the world half-awake.
Lydia had already hurried off to the store where she sold babies clothes.
I was sitting on the porch swing with a blanket around my shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate I didn’t really want. The forest was alive again — birds, wind, everything moving in that slow weekend rhythm.
For once, it didn’t smell like antiseptic.
Christian was inside, probably wrecking the kitchen in the name of “making breakfast.” I could hear him humming to himself, something off-key and familiar. The sound made me smile in spite of everything.
It had been a few days since the clinic. I’d been pretending everything was fine — sleeping more, eating better, smiling when people looked
