There is no relation purer than that with your mother, and there is no relationship more of a struggle than the one born of a sinner. —Rain

Rain POV

Sometimes words aren't necessary to express a soul, and that is the only way I can describe my relationship with my daughter.

Amber was born with congenital vocal cord paralysis. No surgery can fix the silence where her voice should be. In the beginning, it was terrifying. She couldn't cry like other babies. She would squeeze her eyes shut, her tiny face turning red with effort, and tears would stream down her cheeks—but there was never a sound. A silent heartbreak.

When I was pregnant and the ultrasound technician told me I was expecting a girl, I was in a state of euphoria. I wanted a daughter so badly it felt selfish. I wanted to give her the childhood I’d lost, to see the world through her eyes.

But seven months into the pregnancy, I took a devastating fall down the stairs. The placental abruption was immediate. I was rushed to the hospital in a blur of sirens and white coats. The doctors prepared me for the worst—they didn't think she would survive the trauma. But my baby was a fighter. She survived the emergency C-section, though she arrived far too early.

When they cleared her tiny lungs and waited for that first, life-affirming wail, silence filled the room. Her voice box hadn't finished developing before the trauma forced her into the world. A piece of me broke that day, knowing I might never hear her call me "Mama." But God was generous enough to let me keep her after that fall, so I never complained. I simply learned a new way to listen.

I felt a tug at the hem of my sundress and looked down. Amber was beaming, holding a bright green ball in her tiny hands.

"Honey, you got lost in your thoughts again. You’ve been doing that a lot lately."

My nana was watching me, her eyes twinkling with a tease. Ever since my last breakup, she’s been nudging me toward my fiancé. She thinks Amber needs a "father figure," and while he’s a good man, I’m not ready to let someone that close to our private world. Nana just wants the best for us—she’s been more of a mother to me than my own ever was.

Before I could offer a sarcastic retort, I heard the sharp snap-snap of small hands clapping.

Amber was looking up at me, pointing the ball toward the door with an impatient tilt of her head. She was reminding her forgetful mother of our Sunday mission: the park.

I scooped her petite body into my arms, cooing, "We’re leaving in just a second, my love."

I had to put her down almost immediately. My heart sank as her face fell. She always expected me to carry her, but I couldn't. The trauma of the emergency delivery and the hemorrhaging that followed had left me with chronic, severe anemia. Carrying her for more than a minute meant the world would start to tilt and grey out, ending in a fainting spell. She wasn't heavy—being a preemie meant she was still tiny for her two-and-a-half years—but my body was a fragile vessel.

In those moments, the ghost of her father haunted me. I wished she had a dad who could hoist her onto his shoulders and run until she was breathless with silent laughter. Amber looked so much like him. She had his piercing grey eyes—the color of a storm over the ocean—set against my platinum blonde hair. She had his stubborn jawline, too. But he could never be part of this.

I looked at Nana, who offered a sympathetic nod. Take care and relax, she mouthed. I nodded back.

"We’re leaving!" I announced.

"Take care, my cupcakes," Nana called out, waving. Amber returned the wave with enough enthusiasm to nearly knock herself over. I chuckled, offering my pinky finger. She wrapped her entire palm around it, her grip firm and trusting.

We walked to the park, the backpack on my shoulders heavy with "just in case" supplies—extra inhalers, her communication cards, and water. Amber clutched her favorite ball, the one with the tree patterns. Most girls her age wanted cartoons, but Amber was drawn to nature—things she could touch and feel.

Now it was time for Mission: Getting Amber to Make Friends.

My last boyfriend, Darius, had seemed like a saint at first. But behind closed doors, he was a different kind of beast. He’d whisper to Amber when I wasn't looking, telling her I would leave her because she couldn't speak, or that I didn't really love her. Amber is a brilliant child; even at two, she understood the cruelty in his tone. She’d retreated into my shadow ever since, terrified of strangers.

I wanted her to be strong. I didn't want her to be a timid, shaking thing like I had been when I stood in that 90th-floor office four years ago.

"Amber, go and play," I encouraged, pointing to a group of toddlers. She just gripped my dress tighter and shook her head.

I sighed, kneeling to her level. "Honey, Momma can’t always be right here. You need friends."

It hurt to say, but it was the truth. One day, she’d have to navigate this loud world on her own. She pushed the ball toward me and then pointed to the grass. She wanted me to play. When I shook my head, her eyes filled with tears.

She reached up, combing her fingers through her thick blonde hair—a gesture she used to represent "us"—and then locked her hands together. We stay together. Then she lunged into a hug, burying her face in my neck.

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I patted her back until her breathing leveled out, wiping the tears from her eyes. I gave up. Mission: Friends could wait. Right now, she just needed her mother.

Monday arrived with the usual weight of reality. After the tickle-fight that served as our alarm clock, I got Amber through her morning routine and down to breakfast.

"Morning, my princesses," Nanu said from behind his newspaper. He was the second sweetest man I knew, right after my father.

Amber let go of my hand and scrambled over to hug Nanu’s legs. He scooped her up, settled her on his lap, and pouted. "Where’s my morning chocolate?"

Amber leaned in and pressed a sweet, silent kiss to his cheek.

"Yummy, but I think I need another one!" Nanu teased. Amber covered her mouth to hide a soundless giggle, her eyes dancing.

I retreated to the kitchen. "May I help you, Your Highness?" I asked in a terrible British accent. Nana was pulling a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven.

"Just help your mistress serve the breakfast, you naughty girl," she replied in an equally botched accent. We both dissolved into laughter.

I fed Amber, though she was perfectly capable of doing it herself. She just liked the closeness, the ritual of "Mama time" before the day pulled us apart.

"Honey, you know that..." Nana started.

I cut her off, finishing the sentence we’d traded a hundred times. "...that I could work in the family bakery and keep an eye on Amber? I know, Nana. But I need to do this. I need to build something of my own. And I know she’s safe with you."

Nana sighed, Nanu chuckled, and Amber just focused on her cookie.

By nine, I was at my desk at the publishing house, staring at a mountain of manuscripts. I loved being an editor, but I hated Mondays. I was deep into a red-line edit when I felt a familiar, sickening warmth on the back of my neck.

Mac. My boss.

Two things defined Mac: he had breath that could wilt a houseplant, and he was a predatory creep. He’d slept his way through half the office, and I was the only holdout—the "unconquered peak" in his twisted mind.

I forced a smile as I turned around. "Do you need something, Sir?"

"You," he smirked, leaning into my space. "I want you in my office. Right now."

"Can it wait until I finish this chapter?"

He nodded and retreated. I let out a long, shaky breath. I knew the routine. These "meetings" were never about word counts or deadlines; they were about him trying to charm me into his bed.

I worked through lunch, too buried in pages to eat, and finally knocked on his door at eight that evening. He was sprawled on his plush leather couch.

"What did you want to discuss, Sir?"

"Rain, how many times have I told you? It’s Mac when we’re alone." He looked at me like I was an appetizer. "There’s a gala tomorrow night. I want you as my date."

"I'm sorry, Mac, but I can't. My daughter... she doesn't sleep well without me."

"Bring her," he said, his eyes narrowing.

"She doesn't like loud parties," I lied. Amber actually loved lights and food, but I wouldn't let this man within ten miles of her.

"Fine. Then a private dinner. Just us?"

"I don't date, Mac. I’ve told you." I didn't mention my fiancé. In this office, my personal life was a fortress. "I really have to go. My daughter is waiting."

I didn't wait for an answer. I bolted for the exit, the chilly night air a relief after the stifling atmosphere of his office. I reached for my car keys, but my phone rang first.

It was Nanu. My heart plummeted. He only called this late if something was wrong.

"Rain," his voice was tight with a fear I’d never heard before. "We’re taking Amber to the hospital. Get there now."

The line went dead.