Em.

The gentle tone is one you recognise instantly, causing you to turn your head to the door and smile contentedly. It's your youngest son, shoulders slightly hunched and hands stuffed in the pockets of the brown suede leather jacket his father wore when he was 19, the age your son is now.

Harry carefully watches him nervously look around, unsure whether or not to step fully into the private room. Your youngest has always worn his heart on his sleeve and right now Harry can see the unmistakable worry in the green eyes that mirror his own, despite the careful smile he’s giving you.

“Hey Ant,” Harry gently says with a tired smile. “Come in, you don't have to stand all the way over there.”

With a little more confidence, Anthony moves closer to your bed. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if each footstep may disturb the peace and quiet. 

“Dad said you were awake,” he says, looking over to Harry and then to you. “I thought I’d come say hi before you doze off for the night.”

“I'm glad you did,” you reply sleepily. You shift slightly to sit up a little against the pillow and reach out your free hand towards him. “It's good to see you, bug. Did you come straight from class?” You ask.

Anthony (or Ant, as the family affectionately called him, even though he towers over everyone) has been interested in history and ancient cultures ever since Harry gifted him a book on Pompeii after the volcanic eruption for his thirteenth birthday. After following his father around the world on tour during school holidays, Anthony was fascinated by all the places he had seen; each museum, ancient ruin, unfamiliar city and ancient rituals were something for him to marvel at. With Harry’s encouragement and his own ambition to deepen his knowledge, Anthony decided to study archaeology.

He nods silently in response to your question, brown curls bouncing slightly from the movement.

For a moment, none of you speak.

Harry's hand is still in yours, grounding you. It's a sight that Anthony is all too familiar with, having seen his parents hold hands more often than not while growing up. His parents’ hands always manage to find each other in crowded rooms, across dinner tables or in quiet moments just like this. It's become a silent language of reassurance for as long as he can remember - not only between Harry and you, but also him and his sister. 

Anthony watches your joined hands for a beat. Something soft settles in his expression as he looks at you and places his hand in your waiting one. His fingers curl around yours and squeeze.

“You feeling okay?” he asks quietly. The question carries more care than those three simple words can ever suggest.

“I feel alright,” you respond. “Bit tired, but alright.”

“That's… good.” Anthony nods, absorbing the information as though it's something fragile he doesn't want to break.

The three of you sit there for a moment, quietly tethered by your hands and the weight of the moment.

A small chuckle breaks the loaded silence as Anthony looks over to the sunflowers perched on the windowsill in a simple glass vase. 

“I’m assuming the flowers are from Robin.” He says, nodding towards the fresh flowers that had been placed in your room earlier that day.

You snort softly, “You know your sister. Said the room needed more colour to aid in mum’s recovery. Apparently the white walls are ‘emotionally offensive.’”

Harry shakes his head, fondly reminded of your daughter’s attention to detail when it came to decorating. “Your sister’s been redecorating rooms since she was six. Remember when she rearranged the playroom because of the bad ‘foo shoo’?”

All of you chuckle at the memory of a six-year-old girl mispronouncing the word ‘feng shui’ after hearing it in an old lifestyle TV show. 

While the three of you joke about Robin’s fixation on perfect floral arrangements, Anthony’s eyes focus on the bright petals. They seem unapologetically yellow and bright, turned towards the light as they bring a brightness to the sullen atmosphere a hospital room can bring about. Then his gaze drifts back to you and Harry, your hands still linked together. Anthony’s expression softens as he takes in the gesture between two people who are so in love that it seems only natural for some form of physical contact to occur without them realising it.

And suddenly he’s fifteen again, hunched over his Geography textbook at the kitchen counter, his worksheet half-finished.

The kitchen smells faintly of the garlic and ginger from the curry you’d had for lunch, while the soft clanking of plates fills the comfortable silence. You’re standing at the sink, rinsing the cast-iron pan while Harry empties the dishwasher beside you.

It’s late afternoon - that golden hour where the sunlight spills through the window and perfectly catches the flower bouquet on the counter. Anthony’s trying to concentrate on filling out the latitude and longitude lines of different locations, but the quiet rhythm of his parents’ mundane task distracts him.

Just as he looks up, you laugh at something Harry seems to have said under his breath. Your laugh is warm, genuine and slightly high-pitched as your head falls back at your husband’s teasing tone. You shake your head at him and splash a little water in his direction, which he dodges easily, flicking the teatowel in your direction in retaliation. 

Harry steps closer to you, briefly resting his head against yours. You don’t move away; instead you instinctively lean into him, still rinsing the pan as if the movements between you two are second nature. As you go to set the heavy pan on the drying rack, Harry’s hand automatically wraps around yours on the handle to help you and he places a small kiss on your temple. 

The clean dishes are long forgotten now as Harry’s arm settles around your waist, his thumb absently tracing circles through the fabric of your t-shirt. You continue talking about wonderfully ordinary things: groceries, weekend plans, the neighbour’s dog’s incessant barking. It’s the kind of conversation that doesn’t need to be important for it to mean something. 

Anthony’s pencil gently slips from his fingers onto the counter. He tells himself he’s taking a break, but really he’s watching the way the two of you orbit each other with small, practiced gestures. There’s no performance to your interaction, just a steady closeness woven into every movement. Harry leans down to murmur something which makes you smile again and you try to lean even further into him, your shoulder pressing against his.

It looks… easy. Almost effortless, even though Anthony knows that relationships take work. He sees two people who choose each other over and over again, no matter what.

When Harry glances over at his son and catches him staring, he doesn’t say anything or pull away from you. He simply offers a knowing smile with a small twinkle in his eye before he turns back to the now-dry pan; as though Anthony’s been allowed to witness something private and ordinary at all once.

The memory settles warmly in his chest as the kitchen fades and Anthony returns to the present. He returns to the soft light, the steady rhythm of the beeping machines and the sight of your hands still folded together. The tattooed cross on Harry’s hand moves ever so slightly as his thumb continues its absent tracing.

“I remember…” Anthony starts, voice soft and his eyes flickering between your joined hands and faces. “You two have always been like this.”

“What do you mean, Ant?” Harry asks him curiously.

Shrugging, Anthony explains, “Just… close? Not in a big, showy way. Just…” he gestures vaguely towards your hands. “That, you know? All the time, just automatic.”

Harry’s mouth curves upwards in a fond smile. “Automatic.” he repeats, contemplating Ant’s words.

“Yeah, it never felt like effort. Even when things were busy or loud or stressful. I just thought that’s how parents are, you know?” Anthony leans a bit closer to your bed, continuing his confession. “I realised that not everyone has that and I’ve always thought that… if I ever get lucky enough to have something like that, I want it to look like you two in the kitchen. Just choosing each other while doing the dishes.”

The room suddenly feels warm and full from your son’s revelation

“We’re glad you were watching.” Harry teases as you smile at your boy, trying hard not to let a tear roll down your cheek. 

“Was hard not to,” Anthony acknowledges. “It always felt… safe. Like no matter what else was going on, the two of you always felt like being in the eye of the storm. Steady and calm.”

Nonchalantly, Harry pretends to brush something out of his eye at Anthony’s kind words. “Well,” he says lightly, “It’s good to know that all those years of domestic dishwashing theatre paid off.”

“Yeah, real award-winning stuff, Dad.” 

“We rehearsed,” you murmur sleepily. “Years of serious commitment to the bit.”

There’s a brief silence before Anthony speaks up again.

“So, what happens now?” He briefly looks at the machines and then back at you. “Recovery-wise, I mean.”

You gently squeeze his hand. “Now we rest,” you reassure him with the same calm voice that once soothed scraped knees and anxious stomachs before an important exam. “The worst part is over, so now we take it one day at a time. Let the body do what it knows to do.”

One day at a time. 

The words land deep in Harry’s chest and suddenly he’s taken back to a particular moment from many years ago. 

The warmth of summer and the smell of freshly cut grass coats the air around you. The garden is alive with the sound of carefree laughter after the school year has come to an end and the children can finally sleep a bit longer in the mornings. 

You’re crouched near the flower beds, your hands covered by the dirt-smudged garden gloves. Two small bodies flank yours as you show Anthony and Robin how to hold a sunflower stem without snapping it. All curls and concentration, Anthony frowns at the sunflower larger than his tiny face. Robin is right beside him, determined to pick the one with the brightest petals, narrating her every move as though she were the host of a critically acclaimed gardening show.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, bug?”

“When we planting the tomatoes?” A six-year old Anthony asks.  

“In a moment, bug. We just have to finish up the flowers first.” You reassure the child. 

“Mummy, can I have a flower for my room, please? They’re marvelous!”

“Of course you can, love.” You say with a laugh, impressed with Robin’s correct usage of the word. She recently took it upon herself to learn as many new words as she could during the summer. She’s gotten off to a good start and you’re curious to see how many new words she’ll retain by the end of the summer holidays.

After a while, the three of you have moved to a different spot in the garden, while four small tomato plants are waiting to be planted. While you’re digging holes deep enough for the plants, your two children patiently let Harry reapply sunscreen to their faces. 

“Alright. You ready?” You ask them excitedly.

Harry’s watching the scene of you three kneeled beside the vegetable patch unfold as though it were something sacred, not to be disturbed. You glance up at him from under your floppy hat as he takes in the dirt on your cheek and the pure joy on your face.

“Gentle,” you whisper as you guide their tiny hands around the fragile roots. 

Once the tomatoes have been planted, Anthony innocently asks: “Will we have tomatoes tomorrow, Mummy?”

“Not yet, bug. We have to wait a little while. Take it one day at a time. That’s how things grow.”

This is it, Harry thinks as a certainty settles deep in his bones. This messy, sun-soaked moment, this is the life.

“What are you smiling about? You look like you’re about to burst into song.” You joke, pushing the brim of your hat up a bit.

He shakes his head and takes a step closer to you. “Just… taking it all in,” he says softly. “Feels like everytime I blink, they grow another three centimetres.”

Glancing over at the two children occupied with placing the name tags in the soil, your expression softens.

“Then don’t blink,” you murmur. “Stay right here with us.”

His hand reaches for your shoulder as he pulls you closer to him. You lean in without thinking and smile to yourself, enjoying the quiet moment. The thunder of small, determined feet on the lawn and an excited squeal catch your attention.

“Mummy, mummy! Look!”

Robin barrels towards you with a daisy pinched between her thumb and index finger. She stops in front of you and Harry, breathless with triumph as she holds out the small flower to you.

“It’s for you,” she declares. “For showing us how to plant the tomatoes.”

You beam at her as though she’s just handed you a bar of solid gold.

“Oh wow! Thank you so much, my angel.” You say, gratefully accepting the small stem. “I’ll put it right here, so I don’t lose it.” 

Harry and Robin watch you tuck the flower behind your ear, dirt-smudged glove and all. “Do I look prettier now?” You ask as you strike a pose, causing Harry and the children to laugh. 

The garden feels louder and brighter, full of the chaotic sounds associated with childhood. As the sun sets, Harry realises that this is love. It’s not always the grand moments or gestures that people write songs about. It’s sunflower petals stuck to sweaty cheeks, it’s dirt under fingernails.

It’s you saying, one day at a time.

The golden hue of that summer sunset fades as the hospital room returns in its place. The sunlight that has fallen through the blinds is starting to disappear, making the room feel a little cooler. Outside the room, there’s a hum of footsteps and muffled announcements calling specific doctors to another unit.

Harry blinks, grounding himself in the feel of your hand still wrapped in his. 

One day at a time. 

Anthony notices the slight change in the air before either of you says anything. He watches Harry with the same quiet attentiveness he always had and looks at your joined hands again before directing his gaze at his father. 

“You went somewhere,” he says knowingly.

“Yeah,” Harry admits, a huffy laugh escaping his mouth as he shakes his head. “I was thinking of that summer when you and your sister helped your mum plant those tomatoes. You had asked if they would grow overnight.”

Anthony’s face scrunches in embarrassment. “Seems like waiting was never really my strength.”

“No, it wasn’t.” You reminisce, voice thick with sleep and fondness as you think back to when you didn’t have to reach up to hug your youngest. “You used to stand over those plants almost every day waiting for the first tomatoes to come in.”

“As if to say, ‘Grow faster, I’m watching you.’” Harry adds.

“Well, in my defence, you made it sound like magic! You put a few seeds in the dirt and suddenly you’re making pasta sauce with tomatoes from the garden. It was a miracle we managed to harvest at least a few tomatoes.”

“That was because you tried to water them three times a day, Ant.”

“It was dedication, Dad.” Anthony rolls his eyes at his father’s comment.

“It was drowning, bug.” You counter gently.

“Hey-”

“And yet, they survived. Much like your houseplants now, right?” Harry interrupts, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

“Low blow, Dad.” Anthony says, pretending to be deeply offended.

“Knock, knock!” A bright and familiar voice says from the door. 

Robin bursts into the room like a summer breeze with her tote bag slung over her shoulder, curls slightly windblown and eyes immediately finding yours.

“You’re still awake, good. I brought you your favourite-”

She’s distracted by the flowers on the windowsill.

“Oh good, they’re still upright. I was worried Ant would have knocked them over by now.”

“I’ve been sitting still for the last twenty minutes, Robin.” Anthony scoffs, lightly rolling his eyes.

“Statistically suspicious for you to sit still for so long,” she replies, crossing the room towards your bed. She leans down carefully to press a gentle kiss to your cheek and softly hums. “Hi. You look good. How are you feeling now?”

“I feel alright,” you tell her as she takes a step back from the bed. “Bit tired.”

Robin nods, resting her elbow on her brother’s shoulder as she stands next to him. “Thought as much. You okay with us staying a bit before visiting hours are over?”

“Of course, angel. You all being here is necessary for my recovery, Doctor’s orders.” You grin at your daughter.

“Perfect. Oh, before I forget…” Robin moves towards her tote bag on the overbed table at the foot of the bed and starts to rummage through it, “I brought you those dried mango strips you like… and…” She continues to dig through the organised chaos. “A new word puzzle book to help pass the time and keep your brain sharp while you're stuck in here.”

“Oh, thank you, angel.” 

Robin beams as she places the items within reach. “My pleasure. And before you ask Dad, I made sure that the snacks were okay for Mum to eat.” 

Freeing his hand from yours, Harry raises both his hands in an act of surrender. “I'm sure you know what you're doing, bub.”

As you fall into easy conversation with your children, Harry takes in the scene unfolding in front of him - you flipping through the puzzle book, Anthony perched on the edge of the plastic chair, also interested in the puzzles and Robin unpacking enough recovery snacks to last at least two months. 

The room feels full. Not with fear or with uncertainty anymore, but with the familiar noise of love and being present. Harry lets himself sit in it, in this bright and ordinary love; it’s the kind of medicine that doesn’t come in a pill bottle.

“That’s not really necessary, is it Rob?” Anthony notes as he watches his sister attempting to rearrange the snacks in an aesthetically pleasing way.

“Presentation matters, Anthony.” Robin rolls her eyes, staying focused on the colourful packages.

“This reminds me of how you reorganised the spice rack.”

Robin straightens, immediately defensive. “It needed a system.”

“It had a system,” Anthony argues back. 

“A chaotic system, yes,” she shoots back. “Alphabetical order makes sense.”

“It only makes sense when you put the labels back on the jars. We had to smell-test everything for the better part of a week. Remember the chicken?" Anthony shudders at the memory of eating a chicken breast that was seasoned with cinnamon instead of coriander.

Robin flings a serviette in Anthony’s direction, missing him entirely. “Excuse you-” 

“Hey, behave. Both of you.” Harry quietly warns his children, trying to keep the peace for the benefit of your recovery.

Robin looks down with slight indignation, but it slowly melts into a soft grin. Anthony looks unbearably smug for half a second before he cracks, laughter slipping out despite wanting to take his father’s words seriously. The mock battle between the two dissolves into the easy kind of quiet only siblings can fall into after years of affectionate teasing.

As you watch them with a tired fondness, you reach out to stroke Harry’s shoulder lovingly. “That cinnamon chicken was… memorable. I don’t think we’ll ever forget that dinner.” Your voice is soft yet amused. 

This time, it’s Harry who can’t help but laugh as he shakes his head. “I mean, we survived the ‘Great Spice Incident’ despite the label mix-up; that’s what matters. Most importantly, we lived to tell the tale."

“Ugh, you’re all so dramatic,” Robin groans, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “It was one unlabeled jar.”

“It was several unlabeled jars.” Anthony corrects immediately. 

“No risk, no fun, right?” Robin winks, trying to put a positive spin on the mishap. “Where’s your sense of adventure, brother bear?”

The sound of your children’s bickering feels almost comforting rather than disruptive. It reminds you of when they were half the size they are now, legs swinging from the dining table chairs as they argued about meaningless things. It feels steady and familiar, replacing the tension from earlier. 

The hour stretches on as the four of you fall into easy conversation. 

*

Outside the window, the light shifts as the evening air has settled in. The orange hue from the streetlights falls through the glass and onto the floor. No one has the heart to say it out loud, but the awareness that visiting hours are coming to an end settles in. Anthony glances at the wall clock before looking back at you. His expression softens.

“We should probably let you rest, get settled in for the night.” He says quietly.

Robin nods, her tone gentler now. “Yeah, we don’t want to overstay our welcome on day one.”

“You could never,” you murmur and softly stroke your daughter’s hand. Your index finger catches on Harry’s rose ring he gifted her on her 18th birthday. “But I understand. Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Of course we will. Promise.” Robin whispers into your ear as she leans in carefully to wrap one arm around you in a hug that’s warm and lingering without disturbing any of the wires. 

Next is Anthony, who sweetly pecks you on the cheek, “Get some sleep, okay. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Anthony leans in carefully, wrapping you in a hug that’s warm and lingering without jostling you. “Get some sleep, yeah? We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Alright. Thank you for coming,” you reply softly.

Harry takes the time to embrace each child, somewhat reluctant to let go. He makes sure to whisper his sincere thanks, leaving a peck on Robin’s temple and gently patting Anthony’s back. “Love you,” he adds, chest a little tight as he tries to hold onto his emotions.

“We love you,” Anthony says from the doorway.

“Very much,” Robin adds. “See you tomorrow.”

With soft footsteps and one last smile, they slip out into the hallway. The door closes behind them with a quiet click and the echo of their warmth and laughter settles in the air. 

Harry leans back into the chair next to your bed. He holds your hand in both of his and for a moment, neither of you says anything. The rhythmic beeping of the machines fades into the background as Harry’s thumb traces lazy circles against your hand again. He’s not entirely aware he’s doing it, yet you say nothing, as it may be something that soothes him after all the uncertainty of the day. You watch the movement for a moment and feel the steady reassurance his thumb seems to imprint into your skin.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hum of the corridor fades into the background, replaced by the soft rhythm of your breathing and the distant murmur of evening settling into the building.

“They’re good,” you murmur.

He smiles down at your joined hands. “They are,” he agrees, a quiet pride in his voice. “They’ve got their mum’s heart.”

“And their dad’s good looks,” you tease.

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry relents. A small, tired laugh escapes him and settles into the space between you. He lifts his gaze to you, his eyes soft and filled with relief, saying I’m here.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as afraid as I was this morning.” He admits quietly.

“Ditto.” You reply softly, squeezing his hand. “But now the worst part is over and we take it one day at a time.”

Harry leans in to kiss you gently on your forehead, before leaning his forehead against your own. “One day at a time,” he echoes.

The evening sky continues to darken and the room grows softer. You feel the familiar pull of sleep settle in as your eyes start to fall closed, Harry’s comforting presence beside you as he watches you fall asleep. The last thing you remember is the steady warmth of your husband’s hand in yours, anchoring you as it always has. 

Outside, the night sky settles over the city.

Inside, your hand rests in Harry’s like it has a thousand times before.

It’s not always the grand gestures and public declarations, but the gentle certainty of you choosing each other in the small, ordinary moments. Through the noise and the quiet of life, through the years in which things have bloomed and withered and bloomed again. There is a steady knowledge between you that whatever grows next will be met with the same words as everything else has.