But as her health declined, something in her demeanor began to change.
She grew quieter.
More distant.
Sometimes I would catch her staring out the window toward the garden, as though she were expecting someone to appear at the gate.
Someone who never came.
One night, a few weeks before she died, I helped her into bed after a particularly exhausting day.
Her hands trembled as I adjusted her blanket.
Just as I turned to leave, she reached out and grabbed my wrist.
“Claire,” she said softly.
That was the name I carried into this family.
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