Alina

The morning sun streamed through the nursery windows, soft and golden, highlighting Hope’s tiny face as she gurgled happily in her crib. Seven months had passed since the last major attack, and the house felt peaceful, almost ordinary.

I adjusted her little party dress — a soft pink with tiny lace frills — and couldn’t help but smile despite the flutter of anxiety that always lingered in the back of my mind. “Look at you, little one,” I whispered. “Your first ...