The hallmark of a butterfly child. Skin as delicate as a butterfly's wing—the slightest touch could raise blisters, tear it open.
She saw me and whispered, "Mommy." Even that small effort was careful, measured. She was afraid of pulling at the skin on her face.
My eyes burned. I blinked hard to keep the tears from falling.
In my previous life, we couldn't afford the surgery. The delay let infection spread across her body, and she slipped away in the ICU.
She was four and a half years old.
This time, even if it costs me everything, I will protect my daughter.
After staying with her for a while, I went to the nurses' station and hired a senior caregiver with fifteen years of pediatric nursing experience.
I gave her strict instructions—she was not to leave my daughter's side for even a moment.
In my previous life, I didn't learn the truth until after Nora was gone.
The reason she'd had that accident, the skin abrasion that led to the infection—it was because Elijah had devoted all his attention to his precious first love and her son.
He'd promised to watch over our daughter, but his negligence had been criminal.
She could have held on longer. She should have had more time.