Nyara Pov
Hearing Iyla call me "Mommy" sent a shockwave through my entire being, a seismic tremor that shook the foundations of my carefully constructed world. It was a word I had never expected to hear, a role I had never imagined playing. My mind raced, a frantic carousel of questions and doubts, struggling to reconcile the reality of this little girl with the life I had always known. The doctor's words, a distant hum, registered somewhere in the back of my mind, but all my focus was on the child in my arms.
"Yes, it's Mommy," I managed to say, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and tenderness, a fragile promise hanging in the sterile air. "I'm here now, and I'm waiting for you to get better. But I need you to stay awake with me, okay?"
I waited for a response, my heart pounding in my chest, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs, my nerves on high alert.
Then, in a barely audible whisper, Iyla said, "I found sho mommy," a big, radiant smile spreading across her face, a smile that could melt glaciers.
Seeing that smile, feeling her small, warm body pressed against mine, something inside me shifted, a tectonic shift in my emotional landscape. It was like a dam had broken, releasing a flood of emotions I had never known existed, a torrent of love so fierce, so overwhelming, it took my breath away. But it also made me feel incredibly sad, a sharp, aching sadness, knowing that this child, my child, had been searching for me, longing for me, and I hadn't even known she existed.
"Yes, you found me," I said, my voice thick with emotion, a lump forming in my throat. "Now, I need you to let the doctors check and see that you're okay?"
I saw tears welling up in Iyla's eyes, shimmering like dewdrops. "No. Docshers its scarwy," she said, looking at me, her expression pleading, her small hand clutching my shirt.
I hugged her tighter, pressing a kiss to her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin against my lips. "It's okay, baby. Mommy will be with you the whole time. They just need to check your wound on your head, to make sure you're okay."
She protested at first, her little body stiffening in my arms, a tense resistance. But then, she seemed to sense the sincerity in my voice, the unwavering love that radiated from my touch, a palpable warmth that enveloped her. She relaxed, her grip loosening, her breathing becoming more even, a gentle rhythm against my ear.
Dr. Mira, her expression gentle and reassuring, walked over to the bed. She asked Iyla to follow her hand movements, to squeeze her fingers, to answer simple questions. Iyla, clinging to me like a lifeline, responded to each request, her small voice growing stronger with each passing moment, a fragile melody in the sterile room.
"What's your name?" Dr. Mira asked.
"Iyla," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
"How old are you?"
"I'm five."
"And who is this?" Dr. Mira asked, gesturing towards me.
Iyla looked at me, her eyes shining with trust and affection, a radiant light that filled the room. "Thats my mommy," she said, her voice filled with pride, a declaration of belonging.
Dr. Mira smiled, turning to me with a reassuring nod. "Miss Alistair, your daughter is responding well. Her fever has gone down."
"She is fine, but keep her awake for an hour at least. And after checking on her condition you should be able to check her out tomorrow afternoon or night." Listening closely to what the doctor was saying I said "Thank you doctor. Can we please have some dinner sent up here please."
The doctor nodded and made her way out, followed by the nurse, leaving me alone with Iyla. I sat on the bed with Iyla still on my lap, turned around, looking at me with her big, inquisitive eyes. Then, she asked me quietly, "Mommy, did sho weave me because of my stwrange birth mark?"
Hearing those words broke my heart, a sharp, agonizing pang. What could I say? How could I explain the circumstances of her birth, the mystery of her abandonment, without shattering her innocent perception of the world? I had to think of something, something that would reassure her, something that would ease her pain, a balm for her wounded spirit.
"No, baby," I said, my voice soft and tender, a soothing whisper. "Mommy didn't leave you because of your beautiful birthmark. Why would I ever leave you, my sweet baby girl? Mommy had lost you, and couldn't find you."
I watched her face, searching for any sign of doubt, any flicker of fear. Her eyes, so innocent and trusting, held my gaze captive, a silent plea for reassurance.
Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, she said, "Sho you dont tink Iim a frweak because of these?" She said, showing me her arms, her small hands trembling slightly.
My heart ached with a love I had never known before, a fierce protectiveness that surged through my veins, a primal instinct to shield her from all harm. How could anyone make this precious child feel like a freak? How could anyone fail to see the beauty and wonder that radiated from her very being?
Without thinking, I showed her my markings. And that's when it hit me, all of my markings were showing. I was still in my sweatpants and tank top, the clothes I had thrown on in my panic to get to the hospital. I hadn't even considered my appearance, hadn't thought about the judgment I might face. The markings that I had hidden for years were fully visible. I freaked out, about to cover myself with the sheets from the bed, to hide the very thing that connected us, the very thing that made us unique, a secret I had guarded for so long.
But then, two little hands grabbed my arm, stopping me in my tracks, a gentle, insistent pressure. "Wow, Mommy has the same birthmark like me! It so pwetty!" Iyla exclaimed, her eyes shining with wonder and delight, a pure, unfiltered joy.
She smiled, tracing the stars and lines on my arm, her touch gentle and reverent, a delicate exploration of our shared mystery. Her words snapped me out of my terror and panic, silencing the voices of doubt and judgment that had plagued me for so long, a soothing balm for my troubled soul.
The only thing that mattered in that moment was Iyla, her innocent joy, her unwavering acceptance, a beacon of light in the sterile room. It no longer mattered what anyone else thought, no longer mattered what society deemed normal or acceptable. We were connected, bound by a shared heritage, a shared destiny, a celestial connection written in the stars.