The air smelled like sunshine and sidewalk chalk. It was supposed to be an easy walk — just you and Maya. Her tiny hand in yours. Addison had kissed you both goodbye this morning before her shift, promising pancakes tomorrow if Maya behaved.

Maya had laughed. Said okay. Said, “Love you, Mommy,” like she always did.

You let go of her hand for two seconds to grab your water bottle from the stroller.

And in that moment, she ran.

“Maya, stop—stop, baby, wait!”

But she was chasing a butterfly, bright and careless, darting into the road before you could scream loud enough.

The car didn’t stop in time.

You hear the sound before you see her fall — a sickening thud, a screech of brakes, you screaming.

Your legs are already moving. You’re in the street. You’re holding her.

There’s blood on her forehead. Her eyes flutter but don’t stay open. Her little arm is twisted wrong. your dress is soaked in her blood.

People are shouting around you, but you’re already dialling.

Addison.

Your hands are shaking so hard the call nearly drops. You don’t even know if you hit the right contact. But then she answers, mid-shift, slightly breathless.

“Hey, baby, what’s—”

You cut her off, sobbing.

“Addison. She—Maya—she ran into the road. A car. I—Addison, I don’t know if she’s breathing—”

You hear Addison’s sharp intake of breath on the other end. Then her voice, tight and controlled, even as it trembles.

“Where are you? Where are you right now?”

“7th and Garden. They're calling the ambulance. Addison, she’s not opening her eyes—”

“Okay. Okay. I’m coming. I’ll meet you at the ER. I’ll be there before they even finish intake. Stay with her. Just keep talking to her, okay?”

“She won’t answer me—”

“She will. She will. Just hold her and keep talking. I love you. I love both of you. I’m on my way.”

The call ends.

You cradle Maya in your arms in the middle of the street, sobbing into her hair, whispering:

“Mommy’s coming, baby. She’s coming. Just hold on.”