The morning Ava got sick began like every other ordinary weekday, and maybe that’s why the memory still haunts me so badly. Nothing felt dangerous. Nothing felt final. My four-year-old sat at the kitchen counter in pink pajamas swinging her legs while making her stuffed rabbit “talk” to me in a squeaky little voice…. “Mommy,” she announced seriously through Mr. Bun-Bun, “you work too much.” I laughed despite the stress crushing my chest. “Well, Mr. Bun-Bun should get a job and help pay bills.” Ava burst into giggles so hard she nearly dropped her fork. I remember thinking how alive...
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