Half a year: I delivered my daughter, lost a limb, and battled the big C.

Six months ago I was hanging tiny mobiles above a crib, arguing with myself about washable vs. disposable nappies. A faint ache in my thigh kept nagging; I blamed late-pregnancy nerves. The ache became a roar. Scans showed an angry, rare sarcoma sprinting through soft tissue. Birth, then chemo, then the choice no parent wants: amputate or risk leaving my baby girl without a mum. I signed the papers dry-eyed, woke up minus one leg and plus a mountain of guilt. Three weeks later I’m learning to walk on carbon fibre when a stray report whispers “questionable spot—right lung.” Another cliff-hanger, another week of clenched teeth until Dr. Armitage says the lesion is quiet—for now. Somewhere between prosthetic training and midnight feeds I meet Saoirse, fellow one-leg mum who teaches me balance in every sense. Step by step I reclaim the living-room laps, the first standing cuddle, the vanilla-and-pink-frosting victory cake. The cancer may lurk in the margins, but so does my refusal to exit the story. Liora’s fingers curl around my scar and I remember: we don’t choose the quake, we choose how we rebuild.