The Bunnies
A few weeks before Easter, Liam came into the kitchen holding something carefully in both hands. It was a small, uneven bunny—one ear longer than the other.
“I made this for kids in the hospital,” he explained. “So they don’t feel lonely.”
My throat tightened.
“Why a bunny?” I asked.
He gave me the smallest smile I’d seen in years. “Mom used to call me her ‘bunny.’”
That was all he needed. From then on, Liam worked every day—after school, before dinner, sometimes even before bed. He unraveled his mother’s sweaters into yarn and knitted tiny bunnies with crooked ears and mismatched eyes.
One bunny became five, five became twenty, and soon boxes lined the wall. Each bunny carried a tag: “You are not alone.” “You are brave.” “Keep fighting.”
When I asked how many he planned to make, he answered simply: “One hundred.” And somehow, he did it. For the first time in two years, I saw pride return to him.
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