The First Night of Comfort
I stayed with her. I brought her apple juice in a pediatric sippy cup and read her a story about a bear searching for its way home. She insisted I read it three more times because the happy ending gave her the hope she desperately needed. When she touched my hospital ID badge and called me “the good one,” I had to slip away to a supply closet just to catch my breath.
The following morning, social services arrived. When the caseworker asked about her family, Avery could only shake her head. she didn’t know addresses or phone numbers; she only knew her stuffed rabbit was named Mr. Hopps and that her bedroom had pink butterfly curtains. Above all, she knew she wanted me to stay. Every time I moved to leave, panic would seize her face—her young mind had already learned the hard way that when people leave, they don’t always return.
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