I inhaled sharply as the surgeon entered the room. Hours earlier I’d gripped my daughter’s little hand as a stranger pumped anaesthetic into her tiny veins. The nurse escorting me said, “Come on Mum. Nothing more you can do now.” I’d returned to the empty room. Bed gone. Avoiding the chair, I sat cross-legged on the floor, back pressed hard into the wall, and read about Italian women. Their lives. Their loves. Their losses. The edges of the book were sprayed not with gilt, but my daughter’s blood from the accident. “It was a success,” the surgeon said. I exhaled.
Rachel Blackmore is a writer from London, currently working on her second historical-fiction novel. Instagram: @rachelblackmorewriter Substack: The Write Era Carrd: Rachel Blackmore