The hospital room smells faintly of disinfectant, but today it’s softened by the clinking of plastic cups and the rustle of paper napkins. Your daughters have turned the tray table into a tea party fit for royalty. Hazel has set everything with a seriousness that reminds you so much of her father; Willa has made sure every stuffed animal at the foot of your bed has a place; Elsie, toddling and clumsy, keeps announcing that she’s “the queen” and handing you imaginary cake.

You are so, so tired. Your body feels like it’s made of glass—fragile, heavy, aching—but you keep your back straighter than you want to, a smile pulling at your lips. You won’t let them see how weak you’ve become, not if you can help it.

Simon sits beside you, his calloused hand resting lightly on your arm, as he tries to hide the grief behind his eyes that never leave you, even as the girls chatter. He’s memorizing you. You know it.

“Tea, mummy?” Hazel asks, holding out an empty cup with solemn eyes.

You take it with both hands as if it weighs something real. “Why thank you, darling,” you say, pretending to sip. Your voice wavers, but you hide it behind a grin.

Willa leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, “It’s strawberry tea. Daddy’s got plain because he’s boring.” She giggles, and Simon huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head.

Elsie climbs carefully onto the bed beside you, curling into your side with a soft thud. Her small fingers twine with yours, her warmth soaking into your chilled skin. “You’re the queen, mummy,” she declares, and her little crown of folded paper slips sideways over her hair.