The Last Normal Morning
The morning Ava got sick started like any other weekday. 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 tiny squeaky voice.
“Mommy,” she said seriously through the rabbit, “Mr. Bun-Bun says, ‘You work too much.'”
I laughed despite being stressed.
“Mr. Bun-Bun should get a job so he can help me.”
Ava giggled so hard she almost dropped her fork.
I was supposed to take her to daycare that morning, as I always did, but my office moved up an important meeting at the last minute.
My husband Mark grabbed his car keys from the counter.
“I can take her. It’s on my way.”
“You sure?” I asked.
“Emily, it’s daycare drop-off, not brain surgery.”
Ava raised her rabbit proudly.
“Daddy can do it!”
I kissed the top of her head.
“I’ll pick you up later, okay?”
“Can we get nuggets after?”
“You already know the answer.”
“Yesss!” she said happily.
That was the last normal conversation I ever had with my daughter.
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