Simon is only a month old, but you’re already a diaper-changing expert. You hum softly as you fasten the last tab on the fresh one, adjusting the wrap across your chest before sliding him gently inside. He settles against you with a sigh, warm and floppy with milk sleep, and you can already feel his breathing start to sync with yours.

It’s quiet upstairs—too quiet. You hear hushed voices floating up from the living room and then a soft sniffle. Not the newborn kind. The kind that comes from a five-year-old trying very hard not to cry.

You head downstairs, slow and careful with Si wrapped to you, and pause at the last step.

Emily’s standing in the kitchen, holding Ivy on her hip. She’s gently combing her fingers through Ivy’s hair, murmuring something low. Ivy’s eyes are red and wet, her bottom lip trembling.

That’s when you notice it—her hair.

Your breath catches.

The ends are jagged, uneven. Chunks missing. Her bangs, which were once long and wispy, now stick out in uneven tufts like they were cut with kitchen scissors. Which, you’re pretty sure they were.

Your heart aches. Her hair had never been cut—not really. It had grown since birth into long, honey-brown waves that brushed just below her little back. You loved it. Brushed it with detangler and soft hands every night. And now it’s… gone.

Emily glances up at you as you step into the room. She’s calm, soothing, but her eyes say I’m sorry you had to see this like this.

Ivy turns to you, burying her face in Emily’s neck, but you hear her tiny, tearful voice.

“I wanted it to look like Mama’s,” she says, muffled.

You blink. “Like… mine?”

Emily shifts Ivy slightly and nods. “She was trying to give herself curtain bangs. Like yours.”

You manage a smile—tight at first, then softer. Si stirs against your chest, and you bounce a little, absently.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you say gently, brushing some of the uneven hair from her damp forehead. “You really wanted bangs that bad?”

Ivy peeks at you, her lashes still wet. “Your hair is pretty. I wanted to match.”

You kneel down beside them, ignoring the sting in your chest. She just wanted to be like you. And yes, it’s sad—mourning those little baby curls, the softness of her untouched hair. But how can you be upset when this was done out of love?

“Come here,” you say, reaching up to her.

Emily transfers her into your arms, careful not to jostle Simon. Ivy clings to you, and you press a kiss to the crown of her head, her choppy haircut pressing against your lips.