From the moment Britta was born, the world seemed colder than expected. Her mother, still exhausted from labor, was barely able to lift her head, let alone care for all her young at once. Among the newborns was Jane, Britta’s sister, who had curled up beside her. The warmth of that shared closeness gave Britta a brief sense of peace. But it was short-lived.
Jonna, the caretaker, observed that one of the newborns—Jane—looked stronger and more responsive. Meanwhile, Britta seemed quiet, almost fragile. With concern growing over Jonna’s own child’s inability to nurse properly, she made a difficult decision. She took Jane away from Britta, hoping Jane’s vitality would help her own child latch and receive the milk she so desperately needed.
Left alone, Britta shivered. She could no longer feel her sister’s soft breath beside her. Without the warmth of Jane and the comforting scent of her mother, Britta struggled. Her cries were soft and often ignored amidst the noise of a busy, strained household.
Jonna did her best to care for all the infants, but her priority was clear—her own child needed milk, and Jane was strong enough to help encourage the flow. It was a practical decision, not a cruel one, yet its emotional impact on Britta was deep. She lacked the warmth, both physical and emotional, that she had known for only a moment.
Days passed. Though she was eventually returned to the group, Britta was no longer the same. She had learned what absence felt like too soon. And though her tiny body began to grow, the early cold she had endured would leave quiet echoes in her for a long time to come.
