Chapter 1: Morning Routine
The first thing June registered was the light. It poured through the sheer curtains like honey, warm and thick, painting golden stripes across the rumpled duvet. She blinked slowly, her dark eyes fluttering open to the familiar ceiling—the one with the hand-painted clouds and the tiny smiling sun that May's mother had insisted on adding.
Her body jerked.
The spasm came without warning, as they always did. Her right arm flew out, knocking against the bed rail with a soft thud, and her leg kicked once, twice, before settling back into stillness. June barely noticed. She had lived inside this body for twenty-six years, and its surprises were as routine as breathing.
"Morning, sunshine."
May's voice floated in from the doorway, soft as the light. She appeared with a warm washcloth in one hand and a cup of water in the other, her dark hair piled into a messy bun that defied gravity. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled—they always did, like they were sharing a secret only the two of them knew.
"May pretty," June said, her voice high and singsong, the words tumbling out with a slight Vietnamese lilt. "Junie happy. May pretty, pretty."
May laughed, setting down the water and crossing to the bed. She leaned over, pressing a kiss to June's forehead, then gently wiped the corner of June's mouth where drool had gathered during the night. June's lips stretched into a gummy smile, her prominent front teeth catching the light.
"You're the pretty one, baby girl," May murmured, brushing a strand of jet-black hair from June's cheek. "You sleep okay? No bad dreams?"
"Dreams. Dreams of garden. Flowers." June's head lolled slightly to the side, her eyes drifting toward the open sliding doors where the sensory garden waited. Cherry blossom petals drifted across the threshold, caught in a lazy breeze that carried the scent of jasmine.
The morning ritual began.
May worked with practiced efficiency, her movements fluid and sure. She slid her arms under June's shoulders, lifting her into a seated position with a grunt of effort. June's head bobbed, her pigtails swinging—the neon pink scrunchies catching the light like tiny beacons. The witch had chosen them last night, giggling as she'd slid them into place, their silk edges brushing June's cheeks.
"Bao coming today," June said, her voice rising with excitement. "Bao, Bao, Bao."
May smiled, smoothing the wrinkles from June's soft cotton dress—a pale lavender thing with embroidered daisies along the hem. "He'll be here this afternoon. He's bringing that new puzzle you wanted. The one with the ducks."
"Ducks!" June's body shuddered with a spasm, but this one was pure joy. Her arms flailed briefly before May caught them, guiding her hands to the edge of her wheelchair. "Quack quack. Junie loves ducks."
"Everyone loves ducks, sweetheart."
May made it look easy—this dance of bodies and care. But June knew, somewhere in the quiet spaces of her mind, that it wasn't. She couldn't articulate it, not with words, but she felt it in the way May's hands trembled slightly as she helped June transfer into her chair. Felt it in the way May exhaled slowly, deliberately, when the transfer was complete.
So June did what she always did.
She hummed.
The tune was simple, childlike—something her mother used to sing while stirring pots of pho in their tiny restaurant kitchen. The melody wove through the morning air, and May's shoulders relaxed. June watched her wife's face, the way the tension melted from her features, and felt a warmth spread through her chest.
"Hungry?" May asked, buckling June's seatbelt across her plush hips.
"Pho," June said decisively. "Mama's pho."
"It's barely nine in the morning, love."
"Pho," June repeated, her voice insistent but playful. She tilted her head, her dark eyes wide and earnest. "Please, May. Please, please."
May's resistance crumbled. It always did. Fifteen minutes later, June found herself parked at the kitchen island, watching steam curl from a bowl of fragrant broth. Her mother had dropped it off yesterday, along with a note that read: "For my sunshine, from Mama's kitchen. Eat well, sleep well, smile well."
Her father's handwriting had been scrawled beneath it: "We love you, little one."
"Smell good?" May asked, setting down a spoon beside the bowl.
"Good. Good, good, good." June leaned forward as much as her body allowed, inhaling the scent of star anise and cinnamon. Her stomach growled, and she giggled. "Belly say hi."
"Belly says eat." May perched on the stool beside her, lifting the spoon. "Open up."
June obeyed, and the familiar, savory warmth flooded her mouth. She moaned softly—a sound of pure contentment—and May laughed, feeding her another spoonful.
"Mama makes best pho," June said between bites, broth dribbling down her chin. May caught it with the napkin before it could stain her dress.
"Your mom makes the best everything," May agreed.
They settled into their rhythm. Spoon, swallow, wipe. Spoon, swallow, wipe. The morning sun climbed higher, streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and setting the wind chimes to singing. June's body spasmed occasionally—her head would jerk, or her hand would fly out—but May never flinched, never faltered.
"May tired?" June asked, tilting her head to study her wife's face. The dark circles under May's eyes were more pronounced in the glare of morning light.
"A little."
"Junie sorry."
"For what?"
June's brow furrowed. She struggled to find the words, her thoughts tangling like yarn in a kitten's paws. "Junie heavy. Junie...much work." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "May sad?"
May's eyes glistened. She set down the spoon and cupped June's face in her hands, thumbs brushing over her prominent front teeth as she smiled. "I'm not sad, baby. I'm tired because I stayed up too late watching you sleep and thanking the universe for giving you to me."
"Junie happy," June said, her voice wobbly.
"I know you are. And that makes me happy too." May kissed her forehead, lingering there for a moment. "Now finish your pho before it gets cold."
June obediently opened her mouth for another spoonful. Her eyes drifted to the garden outside, where a butterfly danced among the cherry blossoms. The world felt soft and safe and full of love, and even though her body wouldn't always obey her, even though her thoughts sometimes scattered like startled birds—in this moment, everything was perfect.
"May," June said as the last spoonful disappeared.
"Yes, love?"
"Thank you."
May set down the bowl and gathered June into her arms, hugging her close. June's head nestled against May's shoulder, her pigtails tickling May's nose. They stayed like that for a long moment, two women wrapped in the quiet miracle of morning.
Then June pulled back, her eyes bright with sudden excitement.
"Today. Today. Today." Her whole body rocked with enthusiasm, her arms swinging. "Birthday!"
May laughed, wiping a smear of broth from June's cheek. "Not yet, sweetheart. Your birthday is next week."
"Next week. Birthday. Cake!" June's voice rose with joy. "Red velvet. Red, red, red."
"You remember that? From your party last year?"
"Cake. Best. Junie loves cake."
May stood, collecting the bowl and spoon. "Well, we'll get you another red velvet cake. The biggest one they have. With extra cream cheese frosting."
"Frosting," June breathed, as if the word itself were sacred.
The doorbell rang.
June's head snapped toward the door, her pigtails flying. "Bao!" she shrieked. "Bao, Bao, Bao, Bao!"
The front door swung open, and there he was—her brother, tall and broad-shouldered, still wearing his nurse's scrubs from the night shift. His face split into a grin that matched her own when he spotted her.
"Hey, little sis." He crossed the room in three long strides, bending to kiss the top of her head. "You been good for May?"
"Junie always good," she said, beaming up at him.
Bao raised an eyebrow at May.
"Mostly good," May amended, winking at June. "She's been practicing her sweet face for her birthday cake."
"Remind me to order extra frosting." Bao pulled a small box from his pocket and held it out to June. "Puzzle. Ducks."
June's hands fluttered uselessly, unable to grasp the box. Bao waited patiently as she struggled, then gently placed it in her lap. She looked down at the picture on the cover—a mother duck leading her ducklings across a pond, all fluffy and yellow.
"Ducks," she said reverently.
"Open it later," Bao said. "I need to talk to May for a second. Okay?"
"Okay, okay." June's attention was already consumed by the puzzle, her fingers tracing the ducks' outlines with jerky, uncontrolled movements.
Bao and May stepped into the kitchen, their voices dropping to murmurs. June hummed to herself, the sound soft and happy, half-listening to the sounds of her family moving around her. The morning sun wrapped her in warmth, and the ducks smiled up at her, and everything was exactly as it should be.
She didn't understand the worry in May's voice. She didn't understand the tiredness in Bao's posture. But she understood that they loved her, and that was enough.
Later, when the puzzle was spread across the coffee table and she was fitting pieces together with May's help, June looked up at her wife and smiled.
"Best day," she said. "Best, best day."
May pressed a kiss to her temple. "Every day is the best day with you, June."
And June believed her.