Aria’s POV

I sat propped up against the headboard, my daughter cradled in my arms, her small breaths soft against my chest. She was warm, fragile, a piece of me I couldn’t let go of even when my arms ached. I hadn’t slept since the moment they told me—since the moment I realized my son was gone.

The word still felt like poison on my tongue.

The room was quiet except for the occasional creak of the house settling and my daughter’s soft sighs. I stared at her face, at the delicate lashes, the way her tiny fingers curled against my nightgown. She deserved a mother who wasn’t broken. She...