We were in our usual morning rush—me juggling a half-finished coffee, her halfway into her shoes—when she suddenly stopped. Lying in a cool patch of shade near the porch was a rabbit. It looked scruffy but strangely calm, as if it had every right to be there.
I expected it to dart away. But it didn’t. She quietly lowered herself beside it, legs stretched out, silent. I almost chased it off so we could stick to the schedule, but the way she looked at it—like they had some kind of understanding—made me pause.
She didn’t go to preschool that day. Or the next.
I kept assuming the rabbit would stop showing up. But each morning, there it was. And every morning, she’d sit beside it in that same spot. No cuddling, no chasing—just two quiet companions sharing space, like they were part of something I didn’t fully understand.
What surprised me most? She began to sleep through the night. Her appetite came back. The meltdowns all but vanished. When I asked why she liked the rabbit so much, she told me, “He listens when nobody else does.”
Then she whispered, “He said Mama’s still here.”
My heart dropped. We hadn’t spoken about her mother in weeks. It had been too raw, too painful. She was only four. I’d hoped the memories might slowly soften or drift away. I was wrong.
The rabbit didn’t appear out of thin air—but it felt that way. No one in the neighborhood had lost one. None of the nearby pet stores reported anything missing. I even posted a blurry photo online. Not a single lead.
Eventually, we stopped asking where it came from.
I started joining them in the mornings, even just for a few moments—letting my coffee cool while the sun crept over the porch. It felt like time stood still, just for a little while.
The rabbit never fled. It would flick its ears, blink slowly, and stay close to her. Occasionally it would hop in a slow circle, nudge her knee like it was offering reassurance. But mostly, it just stayed still. Grounded. The way her mom used to be.
One morning, as we sat in our quiet little triangle, I asked, “What do you and the rabbit talk about?”
She gave me that look kids give when they’re sure adults won’t get it. Then she said, “He helps me remember.”
“Remember what?”
“Her songs. Her voice. How she laughed when I wore socks on my hands.”
I was stunned. I’d always assumed those memories lived only in me. But she’d kept them, too. Maybe even more tightly than I had.
I stopped rushing to work. We began planning for late departures. I started calling it “rabbit time.” It became the anchor of our mornings.
Then one day, the rabbit didn’t come.
She waited. I waited. But he never showed.
She didn’t cry. She simply stood up, brushed off her pants, and said…