The First Touch
May brought warm, salt-scented breezes off the Atlantic.
Leo was now eight months old, sitting independently on the living room rug, delightedly banging wooden blocks together.
Amy sat on the floor opposite him. Her recovery had entered a new, deeply grounded phase. The medication had been adjusted to a stable maintenance level, eliminating side effects while keeping her mood resilient and clear. Her hair had regained its luster, and her eyes were bright with authentic presence.
"Mama," Leo babbled, dropping a red block and crawling on hands and knees toward her lap.
Amy’s breath caught. For months, supervised care meant there was always a nurse, a therapist, or Mark hovering within arm's reach. Today, Mark was in his home office on a scheduled conference call. For the first time, she was truly alone with her son.
A faint phantom flutter of anxiety rose in her chest—the old fear whispering, What if the fog returns?
Amy placed her palm against her sternum and practiced the grounding technique she had rehearsed for hundreds of hours: Feel the floor. Feel the breath. Name three blue things in the room. I am safe. Leo is safe.
Leo reached her knees, pulled himself up to a wobbly stand using her cardigan for support, and planted a wet, clumsy open-mouthed kiss against her chin.
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Amy burst into laughter—a bright, ringing sound that echoed through the first floor of the house. She scooped Leo into her arms, lifting him high into the air as he squealed with joy, before pulling him down against her chest in a fierce, protective embrace.
In his office down the hall, Mark heard the laughter. He paused his presentation, muted his microphone for three seconds, and simply listened. The sound was sweet, pure, and whole. He leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself, and resumed his meeting with a renewed sense of purpose.
