Seeing Lucy
I pulled up to the Willow Creek building, the sky a thin, bruised gray that matched the ache in my chest.
The receptionist glanced up, eyes weary, and barely managed a smile before she turned back to her computer.
“You’re here for Lucy?” she asked, voice flat.
I nodded, feeling the weight of the name settle like a stone.
She led me down a hallway lined with pastel walls, each one humming with the soft rustle of toys and the distant murmur of nurses.
When the case aide appeared, she cradled a tiny figure swaddled in a white onesie speckled with yellow sunflowers.
“This is Lucy,” she said, her tone gentle but tired.
Lucy stared up at me with wide brown eyes, as if she’d been waiting for a stranger her whole life.
She reached, fingers wrapping around the zipper of my jacket, refusing to let go.
