If I could give you my life, I would.

Something rattles in Zoe’s throat and there is a spluttering sound as the muscles respond, an automatic reflex trying to clear the obstruction, but it is as if her body has forgotten what it needs to do and instead her neck twists to one side, her face contorted with pain or distress, Audrey does not know which. All she knows is that her daughter is suffering and that the face on the pillow no longer resembles that of her beautiful little girl.

It is then that she notices the full bottle of medicine by the bed, remembers Grace’s words as she left the previous morning: Sometimes this stage can last a few days. Use as much liquid morphine as you need to keep her comfortable.

There is a moment’s stillness during which Audrey is not conscious of making a decision. But the next thing she knows, she is watching one hand reach out toward the bedside table and pick up the plastic syringe, the other hand the bottle, watching herself fill the syringe to the top with clear liquid.

She slides a hand under Zoe’s head, raising it a few inches from the pillow, and slowly drops the liquid morphine onto Zoe’s tongue, all the time whispering into her ear that she loves her, that she is there for her, that she will never, ever leave her side. She senses a change in the air, a tiny disturbance of light, but she is focused on what she is doing and does not allow her eyes to leave Zoe’s face.

It seems to Audrey to be an eternity until the syringe is empty. But when, at last, it has all gone, she watches her hand reach for the bottle again, watches herself insert the syringe a second time, sucking up medicine until it is full.

She is aware of performing these movements but is not conscious of being in control of them. Again she lifts Zoe’s head, again she administers the medicine onto Zoe’s tongue, again she whispers the same recitation: I love you, angel. I will always, always love you. There is a gurgling sound in the back of Zoe’s throat as though, in moving her head, Audrey has dislodged a small reservoir that has collected around her tonsils. She waits for it to pass, and once the second syringe is empty, Audrey fills and administers another and then another—too many to count—until there is nothing left in the bottle.

She puts the syringe back on the bedside table and is aware that the room is completely still. It is only when she feels that her cheeks are damp and her face is hot that she realizes she is crying.

She lifts the edge of the duvet and climbs into bed next to her daughter, wraps an arm around her, and holds her close, hoping the warmth of her body will seep into Zoe’s skin. She rests her cheek against Zoe’s, hugging her tight, breathing her in and filling her lungs, as if, in doing so, she is holding on to Zoe’s life. She places the palm of her hand against Zoe’s cheek, feels the thin sheen of skin where once plump flesh had been, feels the vibrations of air rattling in and out of Zoe’s lungs, but does not let go. She needs Zoe to know that she will never stop holding her, that she will never be without her. She sings softly into Zoe’s ear, all the songs they have always loved—“Edelweis,” “Castle on a Cloud,” “Dream a Little Dream of Me”—the notes finding their way through a gap in her lips in spite of the narrowing of her throat and the tears flooding her cheeks. When there are no more songs to be sung, Audrey whispers into Zoe’s ear about all the places they will go, all the things they will do, all the adventures they will have together in Zoe’s dreams.