Morethanadaughter

The first time Mira held her mother’s hand in the oncology ward, she noticed how the bones had rearranged themselves. They used to be anchors—firm, steering her across crowded streets or pulling her back from the curb. Now they were bird bones, hollow and fragile, as if the slightest squeeze might scatter them into dust.

And then she added a new line, the one that hurt the most and helped the most at the same time: morethanadaughter

People said beautiful things. She was so loved. She had such a kind spirit. Mira, you were everything to her. The first time Mira held her mother’s hand