Treatment began quickly. Hospital visits became part of our routine. We learned the sounds of machines and the patience required for long afternoons in infusion rooms.
“My blood is fighting,” Hazel once told a nurse. “And it’s winning.”
Months later, the doctor smiled at us. “She’s in remission.”
Hazel grinned proudly. “See?”
The woman from the porch never contacted us again.
Hazel is seven now. Her hair has grown back in soft waves. She sings loudly in the backseat and debates bedtime like a seasoned attorney.
Some nights, I stand in the hallway and watch her sleep, the light still glowing softly outside her door.
I did not carry her for nine months.
But when fear came. When hospitals became familiar. When staying would have been easier to run from.
We stayed.
And that is what makes us her parents.
