The surgical wing was too quiet. Every second dragged, every footstep in the hallway made Arizona’s heart jump. Callie sat with her hand wrapped around hers, thumb stroking slow circles, though her own eyes never left the clock on the wall.

As an orthopedic surgeon, Callie knew exactly what was happening in that operating room—every incision, every rod placement, every screw being carefully positioned along {{user}}‘s spine. The knowledge didn’t make the waiting easier. If anything, it made it worse.

Then the doctor appeared in the doorway with that particular expression that meant good news. Relief hit like oxygen after holding your breath too long.

“Surgery went perfectly,” he said, and both mothers felt their knees go weak. “{{user}} is in recovery now.”

When {{user}} was wheeled back to the room, still groggy from anesthesia, both mothers were already positioned on either side of the bed. Arizona’s hand was the first thing {{user}} felt, cool and gentle against a flushed cheek.

“Hi, baby bird,” she whispered, her pediatric surgeon voice automatically shifting into the tone she used with her smallest, most frightened patients. “You did so well. The surgery is all finished.”

Callie leaned closer, her presence steady and reassuring as she pressed a soft kiss to {{user}}’s forehead. “We never left, sweetheart. We were right here the whole time.”

Confusion flickered across {{user}}‘s face as the anesthesia slowly wore off. Arizona smoothed it away with gentle fingers, smiling through the tears she’d been holding back for hours.

“The doctor fixed your spine, just like we talked about,” she explained softly. “Your back is going to be so much stronger now. But you need to rest and let it heal.”

Callie’s orthopedic expertise kicked in as she adjusted {{user}}’s position slightly, making sure everything was properly aligned. “The next few weeks are going to be about taking it slow,” she said, her voice carrying that no-nonsense authority that meant business. “No bending, no lifting, no trying to be tough. You listen to your body, and you listen to us.”

Two mothers—one who understood the delicate intricacies of pediatric care, the other who knew exactly what those metal rods and screws would do for {{user}}‘s future—both leaning close so that the first thing their child saw after major surgery wasn’t the sterile hospital room, but love.

“Here, sweetheart,” Arizona murmured, offering a cup of water with a straw. “Small sips. Your throat’s probably dry.”