I couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene before me. Julian knelt beside Emma, carefully examining the shallow cut on her arm as if it were a life-threatening injury. His fingers moved with such tenderness, his face etched with concern I'd never seen directed at our own daughter.
"Does it hurt when I touch here?" he asked softly, his thumb gently pressing near the wound.
Emma sniffled dramatically. "A little."
"You're being so brave," Julian praised, his amber eyes warm with affection. "Dr. Thorne will make it all better, I promise."
My throat tightened painfully. The room around me seemed to blur as another scene overlaid this one—a hospital room from five years ago, antiseptic and cold. Violet's tiny body swallowed by white sheets, her face pale and drawn with pain.
"Mommy, can you call Daddy again?" Violet had whispered, her voice thin and raspy. "Maybe he didn't get your messages."
