My son kept defending her.
“She just needs time.”
“She’s not used to kids.”
“Let’s be patient.”
So I stayed quiet.
Until Easter.
One afternoon, Noah came to me holding a small, uneven bunny.
“I made this for kids in the hospital,” he said. “So they don’t feel alone.”
My chest tightened.
“Why a bunny?” I asked.
He gave a small smile.
“Mom used to call me her little bunny.”
That was all I needed to hear.
After that, he spent hours knitting.
Tiny bunnies. Crooked ears, mismatched buttons for eyes.
Each one made from his mother’s sweaters.
One hundred little pieces of love.
