She’ll never be an artist, cradling a brush in once-chubby fingers grown slender and strong as she’s honed her craft. She’ll never be a writer, weaving worlds with her words, capturing the everyday and transforming it into splashes of glory upon the page. She’ll never be a doctor, wielding the power of life and death in her hands, carrying healing and hope into each new birthing room and bedside vigil. She’ll never be a gardener, harvesting her yield and tilling soil to begin anew, crumbling clods of earth between callused yet tender fingers. She’ll never be a mama, caressing sleep-flushed cheeks, kissing away bruises and heartaches, snuggling her babies close…