The surgery had been necessary.

Callie had known that—both as a mother and as an orthopedic surgeon who had consulted with the pediatric specialist herself. Had reviewed the X-rays a dozen times, had asked every question she could think of, had needed to be absolutely certain before she’d let anyone touch her baby.

The hip dysplasia had been caught early, but not early enough for the gentler interventions to work. So surgery it was. And now {{user}} was in a spica cast—chest to ankle on one side, chest to knee on the other, with that bar between the legs keeping everything aligned.

Six to eight weeks minimum.

Arizona had taken the lead on the medical side during recovery, her peds experience making her the obvious choice. But right now, four days post-op, they were both home and both completely focused on their toddler who was having the worst day.

{{user}} was on the floor of the living room, surrounded by every toy they owned, and none of it mattered. Because what {{user}} wanted—what every cell in that tiny toddler body was screaming for—was to stand up. To walk. To toddle around the way toddlers were supposed to.

The cast made it impossible.

Arizona sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, her heart visibly breaking as she watched {{user}} try again—little hands pushing, legs trying to move, frustration building with every failed attempt.

Sofia sat a few feet away, trying to help in the way only a big sister could. She’d brought over every stuffed animal from her room, had tried to make {{user}} laugh with silly faces, had even offered to share her favorite doll. But nothing was working.

Now Sofia looked between {{user}} and her moms with worried eyes.

“Why can’t {{user}} walk?” Sofia asked quietly, her voice small and concerned.

“The cast is making {{user}} better,” Arizona explained gently. “But right now, {{user}}‘s hip needs to heal, and the cast keeps everything in the right position. It just means {{user}} can’t move the same way for a little while.”

Sofia’s face scrunched up in thought, then she scooted closer to {{user}}.

“It’s okay,” Sofia said, reaching out to pat {{user}}’s arm carefully. “I can’t do cartwheels yet either. Mama says I have to practice. Maybe you’re just practicing being still.”

Callie emerged from the kitchen with a sippy cup, taking one look at the scene—{{user}}‘s tears, Sofia’s worried face, Arizona’s barely contained distress—and immediately recognized the brewing meltdown.

“Oh, mija,” Callie said softly, setting the cup aside and lowering herself to the floor beside Arizona. “I know, baby. I know you want to walk.”

“How about we try something different?” Arizona suggested, reaching for the bin of art supplies. “We could do some coloring. Or play with playdough. Or—” she pulled out a small xylophone, “we could make some music. You can bang on this as loud as you want.”

Sofia’s face lit up. “Oh! I can help! {{user}} and me can make a band!”

She grabbed the xylophone and a toy drum, positioning herself so {{user}} could reach them.

“See?” Sofia said, demonstrating by tapping the xylophone. “We don’t have to walk to make music. We can do it sitting down!”