Abandoned

24

Today the hospital room was quiet except for the low hum of machines and the occasional chirp from the monitors near Sienna's bed. Toys were scattered neatly across the mat on the floor, and Sienna sat in the middle of them, carefully stacking her brightly colored blocks with intense focus.

Zareya sat close by, cross-legged on the padded mat, watching her with a fond but attentive expression.

But then Sienna's gaze shifted—upward, toward the medical cart by the wall where a shiny, reflective metal tray sat. Her eyes locked on the small silver tool resting on it. She pointed, her tiny finger stabbing the air. A curious grunt followed.

Zareya glanced up, instantly knowing what caught her attention. "That's not for playing, sweet girl," she said gently. "No."

Sienna blinked, processing the word. Her hand remained in the air, still pointing.

"No," Zareya repeated softly but firmly, shifting closer. "That's a doctor's tool. It's not safe."

Sienna furrowed her brows. The word "no" had landed now—sharp, unfamiliar. She stood up abruptly, toddled two steps toward the cart, and pointed again, louder this time. "Mm!" she insisted.

Zareya stood, stepping between her and the cart. "No, Sienna." Her tone didn't change, still calm, still warm—but certain.

Sienna's body tensed. Her lip quivered, and then, like a switch had flipped, frustration boiled over. She let out a shriek, turning and flinging a plastic block across the room.

"Sienna," Zareya said, her voice firmer now, crouching to meet her eyes. "No throwing. That's not okay."

But Sienna was already on the floor, her face crumpling, hands balled into fists, her body twisting in protest. Her sobs echoed off the walls—loud and distressed, as if the very word "no" had cracked something inside her.

Zareya stayed near, letting her tantrum play out without leaving. She knew this wasn't just about the metal tray—it was about control, about safety, about the overwhelming swirl of feelings that came with being told "no" when so much of Sienna's early life had lacked any sense of stability.

When the sobs began to slow—hiccupping and raw—Zareya reached out, her palm warm against Sienna's trembling back.

"I know that was hard," she murmured, "but no keeps you safe. I'll always help you through it, even the hard feelings."

Sienna turned into her, pressing her damp cheek into Zareya's chest, clutching at the edge of her scrubs with her small fists.

Zareya wrapped her arms gently around her. "You're still my brave girl. Even when you're mad."

And Sienna, thumb in her mouth, pressed her face close, the storm passing slowly, her body relaxing inch by inch in the safety of Zareya's arms.

Sienna sat perched at the edge of the hospital bed, her legs swinging over the side, mismatched socks on her tiny feet. Zareya sat close by on the reclining chair, flipping through Sienna's therapy notes when she heard it—soft, tentative.

"No."

Zareya glanced up. Sienna was staring at her intently, a cheeky gleam in her eyes as she hugged her bunny tight. 

"No," Sienna repeated, a little louder this time, almost sing-song. 

Zareya smiled, setting the folder down. "That's a new word, huh?" 

Sienna nodded with confidence, clearly proud. She reached for a nearby spoon on the bedside tray. 

"Sienna, that's not—" 

"No!" she shouted gleefully, yanking it toward her with a defiant grin. 

Zareya raised an eyebrow. "I see. We're using that word now?" 

"No," Sienna said again, this time with her face buried in her bunny's fur, muffling a giggle. 

Later, when Zareya offered her a bite of yogurt, Sienna shook her head dramatically. "No." 

When it was time to tidy the blocks: "No." 

When Zareya tried to help her into fresh pajamas: "No!" 

But the tone was light, mischievous, testing. Not angry—curious, playful, defiant in a way only a child learning the power of her voice could be.

Zareya laughed under her breath and crouched in front of her. "You're practicing, huh? That's okay. But 'no' doesn't always mean we don't do things. Sometimes it just means we talk about it."

Sienna stared at her a long moment... then gently poked her bunny's nose and whispered, "No." 

Zareya shook her head, chuckling softly. "We're in trouble now, aren't we, Bun?"

**************************************************

Sienna grinned, clearly delighted by her newfound power. She bounced a little on the hospital bed, her curls bouncing with her, holding her bunny up like a partner-in-crime. "No," she said again, softer this time, almost like a secret between them.

Zareya moved to sit beside her, careful not to disrupt the rhythm of Sienna's play. She held out one of the pajama tops again—pink, soft, and freshly folded. "Okay, Sienna," she said gently. "Let's try this again. It's bedtime, and your other shirt's got yogurt on it. Want to pick this one or the yellow one?"

Sienna squinted at the shirts, then at Zareya. She pursed her lips... then pointed at the pink one.

"Pink one?" Zareya clarified.

Sienna nodded. "No," she said confidently.

Zareya blinked. "Wait... so yes to the pink one?"

Sienna hugged her bunny tighter and nodded again. "No."

Zareya smiled, fighting a laugh. "We might need to work on when to say it, sweet girl."

Sienna reached for the pajama top herself and handed it to Zareya. "No," she whispered again, but this time she leaned into her, clearly meaning something different—maybe even nothing at all. It was just a sound she liked, something that made people look, respond, engage.

Zareya helped her into the pajamas as Sienna murmured "no" under her breath three more times—one to the bunny, one to the sock that wouldn't go on straight, and one just because.

Once she was dressed and snuggled into the bed, Zareya tucked the blankets around her and sat on the edge, brushing hair from her forehead.

"You're learning so much," she whispered. "Even if it's a little backwards sometimes."

Sienna yawned, her voice sleepy. "No."

Zareya leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Yes."

And Sienna, still gripping her bunny close, let out a breath and closed her eyes... finally quiet.