“And?”
“And she was scared.”
Fear.
Another familiar thing.
Her mother had always been scared. Of men. Of loneliness. Of poverty. Of silence. Of herself.
And somehow everyone around her had spent years drowning beside that fear.
Clara rubbed both hands over her face.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“She destroyed every good thing she touched.”
Daniel was quiet for a long time.
Then he asked softly, “Including you?”
The question sliced cleanly through her defenses.
Clara looked at her son and suddenly saw how young he still was beneath the exhaustion. How desperately he wanted to understand something nobody had ever explained to him properly.
But how could she explain?
How could she describe years of hiding bruises beneath sweaters because Elena always chose the wrong men?
How could she explain the endless cycle of apologies and disasters and promises that never lasted?
How could she explain loving someone who kept handing pieces of themselves to people who broke them?
“She wasn’t always bad,” Clara said finally.
Daniel said nothing.
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