6
Grace.
Sophie threw up around midnight.
I heard the whimpering first; a soft, pitiful sound through the baby monitor I still kept on my nightstand out of habit. Then the sharp rustle of sheets. A cough. And the quiet, unmistakable sound of liquid hitting fabric.
I was on my feet before I could think.
When I pushed her door open, the smell hit me instantly. Sophie was sitting upright in her bed, hair sticking to her damp cheeks, her pajama top stained, little face twisted in confusion and discomfort.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I whispered, crouching beside her. “You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
She clung to me like I was the only thing solid in the world. I held her for a full minute before easing her toward the bathroom, stripping her down gently, and wiping her down with warm water
