“Because she’s going to win,” June said. “No matter what.”
Tori is six months old now. She laughs every time she hears June’s voice and shrieks like she’s auditioning for Broadway if we drive more than 10 minutes. She’s obsessed with gripping things — her toys, bibs, our fingers — especially June’s. Sometimes it feels like she’s holding on to more than just skin, like she knows who her anchor is already.
She’s fearless. She’s loud, curious, and beautiful. She’s all of June’s fire wrapped in a softer frame.
One night, I was walking past the nursery on my way to put the kettle on. The door was cracked just enough for me to see inside.
June was standing by the crib, gently swaying side to side with one hand resting on the railing. Tori was asleep, her little arms stretched overhead like she owned the whole bed. The room glowed from the nightlight, soft and golden, like it was holding them in place.
I didn’t want to interrupt, but something about the stillness made me pause.
“I’m sorry about that day,” June whispered, her voice barely above the hush of the baby monitor’s static. “You didn’t do anything wrong, sweetheart. You were perfect. You are perfect.”
Tori stirred slightly but didn’t wake.
“I was just scared, my darling,” June continued. “Not of you. But of me. And of all the things I was still carrying.”
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