Abandoned

32

Over the next few days, Sienna clung to Zareya with a kind of desperation that softened only with time. It was expected—predictable, even—after what they'd been through. But knowing it didn't make it easier to watch.

Zareya didn't fight it. She held the girl whenever she reached for her, whether it was in the quiet hours before dawn or mid-meltdown on the hospital floor. Comfort was no longer clinical. Now that fostering was on the table, the lines had shifted—she could let herself be Mama without apology.

And Mama she was.

The name had stuck this time, murmured sleepily before naps and called out urgently in the dark. It was the first word Sienna spoke each morning—raspy and small, but certain.

Their days found a rhythm. Bedtime at 8:30, small meals of plain but nourishing food. Zareya kept things predictable. Gentle. Nothing flashy, nothing new. Just consistent love and quiet safety.

The clinical team gave them space, holding off on therapy for a few weeks to allow the bond to deepen. It was working—Sienna was starting to settle. She laughed sometimes. She made eye contact more often. And though she still startled at sudden noises or unexpected touches, she no longer screamed in her sleep.

But today, the quiet would be broken.

A knock came at the door—sharp, controlled. Predictable for an adult, but jarring for a child like Sienna.

She tensed immediately.

Zareya felt her flinch before the sound even registered. She pulled her close, whispering low reassurances into her curls. "It's okay, love. Just a visitor. I've got you."

The door opened slowly, and Charlotte stepped inside with her usual calm. A canvas bag swung from one shoulder.

"Morning, Sienna," she said gently. "How are we today?"

Sienna didn't respond. She buried her face in Zareya's chest, fists tightening around her shirt like she might vanish if she let go. Her whole body was rigid, vibrating with unspoken fear.

"She's having a hard morning," Zareya said, her tone neutral but protective.

Charlotte offered a patient nod. "Understandable. I'm just here to introduce a new communication binder. You're familiar with how they work—I'll demo today, then you can take over from there."

"Of course," Zareya replied, flatly polite. "Whatever you think is best."

Charlotte smiled, unfazed by the edge in her voice. She knelt on the carpet and began laying out the binder—velcro-backed symbols, simple visuals of basic needs and feelings, laminated and color-coded.

But Sienna wasn't having it.

Each time Charlotte tried to engage her, calling her name softly or gesturing toward a card, Sienna only pressed deeper into her mama's arms, releasing a low, anxious whine. Her fingers curled into the fabric of Zareya's shirt, anchoring herself like a ship in stormy waters.

Charlotte tried for nearly an hour, demonstrating the cards, pausing, trying again.

Finally, she exhaled and stood. "That's my time. Try to work with her when she's calmer—note what works, what doesn't. And keep the binder accessible."

"Got it," Zareya said, then under her breath, "Yes, ma'am."

The door closed with a soft click.

Immediately, Sienna loosened. Her tiny body relaxed against Zareya's, and after a beat, she lifted her head with a mischievous grin—the kind that tugged at one corner of her mouth and lit her eyes with barely-contained glee.