That phrase stuck with me.

“One last time.”

At the time, I thought it was manipulation.

I remember gripping the kitchen counter so tightly my fingers hurt. Years of resentment came pouring out of me all at once.

I told her Lily wasn’t some emotional safety blanket she could return to whenever life got hard. I told her she gave up the right to call herself a mother years ago. That Lily finally had stability, and I wouldn’t let her destroy it again.

Then I said the sentence I wish I could take back more than anything in my life.

“She’s my daughter now.”

Silence.

Not angry silence. Not defensive silence.

Just… broken silence.

Then Vanessa quietly whispered, “I understand.”

And I hung up.

I expected to feel guilty afterward, but I didn’t. Not immediately. I felt righteous. Protective. Like I had defended my child.

Two days later, Daniel came home early from work.

The second I saw his face, I knew something terrible had happened.

He sat at the kitchen table without taking off his coat. His hands were shaking.

“Vanessa died this morning,” he said.

For a second, the words didn’t even register.

Apparently, she’d been dealing with a serious medical condition for months. One she’d hidden from almost everyone. Complications during emergency surgery had caused internal bleeding doctors couldn’t stop.

I remember sitting there staring at him while my ears rang.

One last time.

That’s what she’d meant.

I never told Daniel about the phone call. Not then.

I couldn’t.

Lily cried when she heard the news, though it confused me at first. She barely knew Vanessa. But grief is strange. Sometimes people mourn what they had. Sometimes they mourn what they never got to have.

The weeks afterward felt heavy in our house. Quiet. Like everyone was walking around holding their breath.

Then the package arrived.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. Daniel was still at work, and Lily was upstairs doing homework when I heard the knock at the door.

Small brown box. No return address.

Just Lily’s full name written in shaky handwriting across the top.

Something about it made my stomach tighten immediately.

I should’ve waited for Daniel.

Instead, I opened it.

Inside was a stuffed rabbit. Old and faded, with one button eye missing.

Lily had a rabbit exactly like that when she was younger. She used to carry it everywhere before it disappeared during a move years ago. Daniel assumed it had been lost.