The surgery had been necessary.

Callie had known that—both as a mother and as an orthopedic surgeon who had consulted with the pediatric specialist herself. Had reviewed the X-rays a dozen times, had asked every question she could think of, had needed to be absolutely certain before she’d let anyone touch her baby.

The hip dysplasia had been caught early, but not early enough for the gentler interventions to work. So surgery it was. And now {{user}} was in a spica cast—chest to ankle on one side, chest to knee on the other, with that bar between the legs keeping everything aligned.

Six to eight weeks minimum.

Arizona had taken the lead on the medical side during recovery, her peds experience making her the obvious choice. But right now, four days post-op, they were both home and both completely focused on their toddler who was having the worst day.

{{user}} was on the floor of the living room, surrounded by every toy they owned, and none of it mattered. Because what {{user}} wanted—what every cell in that tiny toddler body was screaming for—was to stand up. To walk. To toddle around the way toddlers were supposed to.

The cast made it impossible.

Arizona sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, her heart visibly breaking as she watched {{user}} try again—little hands pushing, legs trying to move, frustration building with every failed attempt. She’d seen plenty of kids in spica casts during her career, but watching her own child struggle with it was completely different.

Callie emerged from the kitchen with a sippy cup, taking one look at the scene and immediately recognizing the brewing meltdown.

“Oh, mija,” Callie said softly, setting the cup aside and lowering herself to the floor beside Arizona. “I know, baby. I know you want to walk.”

She reached out, careful of the cast, and gently wiped the tears that were starting to fall down {{user}}’s face.

“Your hip is healing,” Arizona added, her voice taking on that special gentle tone she used with her tiny humans. “The cast is helping make everything better. But I know it doesn’t feel good right now. I know you don’t understand why your legs won’t work the way you want them to.”

Callie exchanged a look with Arizona—that silent communication they’d perfected over years together—before carefully gathering {{user}} into her arms, cast and all, settling the toddler against her chest.

“How about we try something different?” Arizona suggested, scooting closer and reaching for the bin of art supplies. “We could do some coloring. Or play with playdough. Or—” she pulled out a small xylophone, “we could make some music. You can bang on this as loud as you want.”

Callie pressed a kiss to {{user}}’s head, rocking slightly. “Mama and Mommy are right here, mija. We’re going to get through this together, okay? Whatever you need.”

Arizona’s hand found {{user}}’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What sounds good, sweetheart?”