Beth and Sofia started to volunteer at the hospital and returned to St. Mary’s as often as they could.  They both started to feel changes at home. Sophia seemed to be talking more, and even Beth felt more optimistic about the future. The hospital seemed to help them both understand that although they lost a family life when Sophia’s father left, they were still lucky to have their health and each other. 

As they met different families, and watched children come and go from the hospital, they continued to have each other and had things to talk about outside their loss. Sophia even started going without her mother, when her mother had to work.

On one of the days, Sofia carried the hospital visitor badge clipped to her sweater, the laminated plastic brushing against her chest. Beth’s badge hung on a lanyard, swaying gently as she walked beside her daughter. The art room was quieter that morning. A few children colored at the tables, soft music playing in the background. The calm should have eased Sofia’s nerves, but instead it made her hyper-aware of her own silence. She was having good and bad days, but today she was struggling.

Beth noticed Sophia was struggling on that day. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” she whispered. “Just sit with them. Sometimes that’s enough.” Beth thought about the date and realized that it was the anniversary of the day that her husband left. She was so busy that she had forgotten, but clearly Sophia remembered.

Sofia gave a slight nod, grateful for the option.

They split off—Beth helping a boy with construction paper shapes while Sofia sat across from Adam, the boy she’d helped before. He was doodling jagged lines across the page, muttering under his breath.

“You okay?” Sofia asked softly.

He shrugged. “It’s supposed to be a monster, but it looks dumb.”

Sofia hesitated, then pulled a scrap of paper toward her. Her pencil felt strange in her hand, foreign after months of neglect. She sketched a rough oval, adding horns and mismatched teeth. It was messy, awkward. But Adam’s eyes lit up.

“Cool!” he said, leaning closer. “Can you add wings?”

Sofia’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Across the room, Beth watched them with quiet pride. For months, she had tried to coax Sofia out of her shell at home—through conversations, reminders, even therapy brochures that ended up shoved in drawers. But here, in this brightly painted room, Sofia was inching toward herself again without Beth forcing it.

Still, Beth carried her own nerves. She didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to smother. She worked with a little girl named Emily who struggled to grip crayons with her bandaged hands. Beth guided her gently, letting the girl lead. When Emily finally managed to scribble a purple sun, she clapped for herself, her laughter ringing across the room.

Beth felt her throat tighten. There was something healing here, not just for the children but for her too—for the part of her that had been aching, watching her daughter fade.

When the shift ended, they walked back to the car together. Neither spoke at first. Sofia stared at her hands, faint pencil smudges on her fingertips.

Beth glanced over. “You did good in there.”

Sofia shrugged, but not dismissively, more like she wasn’t sure how to accept the praise. “It was…okay.”

Beth smiled. “Okay is more than enough.”

For a moment, their silence felt different—less heavy, less strained. The hospital had given them something to share beyond worry and disappointment. A small start.

And though Sofia wouldn’t admit it out loud, part of her was already wondering what Adam might want to draw next time.