In Bloom

Chapter 2: A New Dawn

The sound of Amara’s tiny feet padding down the hallway was the first thing that woke Isla each morning. Her daughter had an internal alarm clock, always knowing when her mama was just on the edge of consciousness. This morning was no different.

Amara pushed open the bedroom door with her usual enthusiasm, her curly pigtails bouncing as she climbed onto the bed. "Mama, I’m hungry," she announced, her small hands patting Isla’s arm with a determination only a toddler could muster.

Isla blinked away the remnants of sleep, her body heavy, still not used to the weight of mornings without Daniel. Those quiet moments before Amara’s entrance were always the hardest. The space beside her felt colder than ever, a haunting reminder that he was gone, that she’d have to face the day alone again. Daniel had always been the one to rise first, his voice warm and low, promising pancakes and coffee. But now, the silence left behind was deafening.

With a soft sigh, Isla sat up, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Amara’s forehead. “Okay, bébé, let’s go make breakfast,” she said, her voice soft, masking the ache underneath.

Slipping out of bed, Isla pulled her robe around her and padded down the hallway, Amara trailing behind her. The house was quiet, too quiet, except for Amara’s constant chatter about her dreams and the flowers she wanted to pick today. Isla smiled but couldn’t focus on her daughter’s words. Her mind wandered to the past, back to the mornings when Daniel’s laughter filled the kitchen, the mornings that felt so far away now.

The kitchen felt emptier than it used to. It had been two years since Daniel passed, but the grief still came in waves. Some days, it was a dull ache that lingered in the background, manageable. Other days, it was all-consuming, a heaviness she could barely carry. This morning was one of those days.

Amara climbed into her booster seat as Isla moved through the motions of breakfast, making her daughter’s favorite—scrambled eggs and toast with strawberry jam. The smell of the eggs sizzling in the pan brought back memories, ones Isla couldn’t stop from rising to the surface.

Daniel used to stand by the stove, a spatula in hand, singing off-key to some old-school R&B song while Amara, just a baby then, babbled from her high chair. He had always made breakfast an event, turning the kitchen into a stage, his deep laugh echoing against the walls. He had such a big presence, and now that he was gone, the house felt too large, too empty, without him to fill the space.

“Mama, you gonna eat?” Amara’s little voice broke through the cloud of Isla’s thoughts. Her big brown eyes stared up at her with innocence, unaware of the sorrow that weighed on her mother’s heart.

Isla forced a smile. “Of course, chère,” she said, sitting beside her daughter. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew better than to skip meals in front of Amara. The little girl needed stability, something constant in a world that had changed too much, too fast.

As Amara ate her breakfast, chattering away about her dolls and the flowers they might see on their walk later, Isla’s mind wandered again, this time to a different memory. A time when things were simpler. A time when Daniel was still here.

It was a few weeks after Amara had been born, and Isla had never felt so exhausted in her life. The sleepless nights, the endless feedings—it was all so overwhelming. One night, after hours of trying to soothe a crying, restless Amara, Isla stood by the crib, her hands shaking from fatigue, tears threatening to spill. She had felt like a failure, unable to calm her own child.

That was when Daniel had come up behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist, his voice gentle and steady. “I got her, bébé,” he’d whispered, taking Amara from her trembling arms. “You go get some rest.”