I looked at him for a long moment, trying to understand how far he wanted to go.
I nodded without saying anything, because in his eyes there was a calm determination that I had never seen before, something firm, something definitive.
That night I sat in front of my laptop, going through folders I had avoided opening for months, maybe years, looking for moments I never imagined anyone else would see.
There were videos of Lily in the hospital, her little head barely covered by a cotton cap, her skin pale and her eyes too big for her little face.
There were also photos of Leo sitting next to his sister, holding her little hand with a seriousness that did not correspond to his five years, as if he understood more than he should.
I found the video where the doctor explained, in a soft voice, why Lily’s hair wouldn’t grow back, at least not for a long time.
Then another one, where Leo asked if he could give his hair to his sister, if that would make her feel better or if that way he could “lend her a little bit of sunshine”.
I felt my throat close up as I edited, cutting scenes, arranging memories, trying to make everything make sense without needing too many words.
When I finished, the video was only three minutes long, but it weighed like years of silences, decisions, and small promises made in hushed tones.
I showed it to Mark without saying anything.
