The loss had been three days ago. Arizona was still recovering—physically sore, emotionally devastated. She’d been so excited about the baby, and now it was just gone. Callie was holding it together for both of them, but Arizona could see the grief in her wife’s eyes too.

They hadn’t told {{user}} what happened yet. How did you explain loss like that to a little kid?

Arizona was curled up on the couch with a heating pad, wearing sweatpants and one of Callie’s old shirts. She felt empty. Hollowed out.

{{user}} had been playing quietly but was watching Arizona now with worried eyes. Without a word, {{user}} climbed onto the couch carefully and wrapped small arms around Arizona, snuggling close.

Arizona’s throat tightened. She held {{user}} gently, blinking back tears.

Then {{user}} scrambled off the couch and ran to the toy box, grabbing an armful of stuffed animals—the favorites, the ones {{user}} slept with every night. {{user}} came back and carefully arranged them around Arizona. A teddy bear under her arm. A stuffed elephant on her lap. A bunny pressed into her hands.

Arizona’s chest cracked open. {{user}} was trying to make her feel better the only way a little kid knew how.

Callie appeared from the kitchen, stopping when she saw the scene. Her eyes were already red-rimmed. She set down the mug of tea she’d been carrying and sat on Arizona’s other side.

“That’s really sweet, mija,” Callie said softly, her voice thick.

{{user}} looked between both moms—clearly confused why they were both so sad but determined to help. {{user}} climbed back onto the couch and pressed close to Arizona again, small hands patting her arm gently.

Arizona kissed the top of {{user}}’s head, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, sweetie. You help so much.”

Callie’s hand found Arizona’s over {{user}}’s small form, and they sat there together—grieving, surrounded by stuffed animals and the quiet weight of loss.