Dorothy stared at the message while Theodore gnawed enthusiastically on a teething ring in her lap.
It did not fix anything.
Still, she did not delete it.
Some apologies were less about forgiveness than recordkeeping. A final line entered into evidence of the soul.
Doctor Prescott became a regular visitor.
At first she came professionally—to monitor developmental milestones, ensure no hidden complications remained from the premature birth, and answer Dorothy’s endless questions about reflux, sleep windows, and whether Theodore’s determined preference for one side of his head required intervention.
Then she stayed for coffee.
And then for soup.
And eventually for conversation that had nothing to do with medicine.
They talked about books, weather, bad television, and grief. About mothers. About what it meant to lose a patient you couldn’t save or a daughter you couldn’t keep. Dorothy found the doctor good company because she did not rush silence. She knew how to let sadness sit in a room without demanding it become inspiring too quickly.