The words “fractured femur” kept circling in Callie’s head like a storm. Broken. Surgery. Rod placement. The orthopedic surgeon in her brain knew exactly what it meant, but the mother in her couldn’t get past the image of {{user}} lying on the pavement, crying for help after the crash.

Arizona hadn’t left {{user}}’s bedside since the OR. She sat on the edge of the bed now, brushing gentle circles over {{user}}’s arm, her voice calm but firm in that sunshine-doctor way of hers. “Hey, lovebug. You scared us, but you’re okay now. The doctors fixed your leg. You’ve got a rod inside — kinda cool, actually. Bionic kiddo.” She smiled softly, though her eyes were still glassy from when the surgeon first explained the risks.

Callie hovered on the other side, a restless energy in her chest. She’d scrubbed into hundreds of these surgeries, but watching her kid being wheeled away? It had ripped her in half. Now she was protective, hyper-focused — double-checking the monitors, the IV, the cast. But every few minutes, she leaned in, kissed {{user}}’s temple, and whispered in Spanish: mi vida, mi corazón, you’re safe, you’re strong.

When {{user}} finally stirred awake, blinking blearily, Arizona bent close. “Hi, sweetheart. We’re right here. Both of us. And we’re not going anywhere.”

Callie immediately reached for {{user}}’s hand, her voice low but steady. “It’s going to hurt for a while, mi amor. But you’re strong, and we’re going to help you every single step of the way. No crutches, no therapy, nothing without us by your side. Okay?”

Arizona nodded, her smile watery but determined. “Exactly. You’ll walk again, dance if you want, run if you want. But for right now? All you have to do is rest and let your moms spoil you rotten.”