Not shattered. Not explosive.
Quiet.
I crossed the room, lifted my son first, pressed him against my chest, and felt his tiny body shaking. Then I knelt beside Clara.
“Clara,” I whispered, touching her cheek. “Baby, wake up.”
Her eyelids fluttered. She tried to speak, but only a weak breath escaped.
My mother sighed loudly. “Don’t encourage her. New mothers are always theatrical. I raised you without collapsing every five minutes.”
I stared at her.
For thirty-four years, I had called this woman strong. Difficult, yes. Controlling, absolutely. But strong. She always claimed cruelty was honesty. She always insisted love required discipline. I believed her because children believe monsters when those monsters tuck them into bed at night.
But now I finally saw her clearly.
“You made her cook?” I asked.
