Aria
Lucas nuzzled into my lap, his mismatched eyes wide as I read aloud the story from the children’s book. He’d found it in the playroom at the hospital, and snuggled up into bed with me, practically begging me to read it for him.
“And then the rabbit said,” I continued, “‘But how can I trust a wolf who eats rabbits for dinner?’”
Lucas gasped, clutching the edge of his blanket like it might protect him from the imaginary wolf in the story. “What did the wolf say next, Mommy?” he asked eagerly, practically bouncing in the hospital bed beside me.
I smiled. “He said, ‘Because friends are not food.’ ”
Lucas giggled, his laughter brightening the sterile hospital room more effectively than the sun streaming through the windows. It eased some of the tension in my chest, even
