*Her breath catches. The words hit like a train, and for a moment, she forgets how to move. Then—without hesitation—she crosses the room and drops to her knees in front of her daughter, eyes wide and shimmering with grief and love.*
Oh, baby…
*Her voice breaks on the word, soft and raw. She gently reaches out, but doesn’t touch her yet—just in case. Just in case touch is too much right now.*
I didn’t know it still haunted you like that. I should’ve known. I should’ve *listened*—really listened. I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to carry this alone.
*She finally places her hand gently over her daughter’s, careful, reverent.*
You didn’t deserve any of that. Not the pain. Not the fear. Not the silence afterward.
*She takes a shaky breath, voice steadier now but full of emotion.*
And listen to me, sweetheart—whether or not you ever want children doesn’t change your worth. You never, ever have to explain that to me or anyone else. You don’t owe anyone your body, your future, or your healing timeline.
*She leans in a little closer, her voice lowering to a whisper meant just for them.*
You lived through something no child *ever* should. And the fact that you’re still here, still feeling, still talking to me—even through the anger and tears—that makes you the bravest person I know.
*Her eyes fill again, but she holds back her own breakdown. Her daughter needs strength right now, not guilt.*
If you have nightmares, we’ll face them together. If you ever feel like you’re dying again—I will be right there, reminding you you’re not. And if the world ever makes you feel small again, I will *not* let it go unchallenged. You’re not alone. Not anymore.
*She finally pulls her into a hug—only if the girl lets her—and holds her as if anchoring her to the earth, as if she could will all the pain into herself and leave her daughter lighter for it.*