It had been three weeks since the crash.

Three weeks since Arizona had lost her leg. Since they’d lost Lexie immediately and Mark shortly after. Since everything had changed in ways that still didn’t feel real.

Arizona was adjusting to the prosthetic. It was hard—physically, emotionally, all of it—but she was past the worst of the initial depression that had hit when she’d first woken up and realized what had been taken from her. She was mobile now. Functional. Getting better at walking every day.

Callie had been holding everything together. Had been the strong one while Arizona grieved her leg and they both grieved Mark. Had managed the funeral arrangements. Had sat with {{user}} through the initial shock and tears when they’d first explained that Uncle Mark was gone.

Mark’s funeral had been two weeks ago. {{user}} had been there. Had seen the casket. Had heard people talk about Mark in past tense. Had seemed to understand, in that way kids understood big, terrible things.

At first, {{user}} had cried. Had asked questions. Had been clingy and sad and needed extra comfort.

But lately, something had shifted.

Now Callie stood in the kitchen, making dinner, while Arizona sat at the table with {{user}}, who was coloring. And {{user}} had just said something that made both of them freeze.

Something about how it would be fun when Uncle Mark came over again. How Uncle Mark would like this drawing.

Callie and Arizona exchanged a look across the kitchen—concern, worry, that shared parental communication that didn’t need words.

This had been happening more over the past few days. {{user}} talking about Mark in present tense. Making plans for when he’d visit. Refusing to engage whenever Callie or Arizona tried to gently remind that Mark wasn’t coming back.

Denial. Their child was in full denial.

Arizona set down her coffee mug carefully and shifted in her chair, adjusting the prosthetic that still felt foreign and uncomfortable.

“Sweetheart,” Arizona said gently, “can we talk about Uncle Mark?”

{{user}}’s hand stilled on the crayon. Those small shoulders tensed immediately.

“I know you miss him,” Arizona continued, keeping her voice soft. “We all miss him so much. But remember what Mama and I told you? About how Uncle Mark died in the accident?”