Clara: A Short Story
Clara couldn’t remember a time where she’d liked her mother.
She had no idea what her mother had done to cause this, but that’s how Clara came into consciousness. Her pride wounded at some recent yet long-forgotten offense. Some wrong Clara had to avenge through defiance, screaming matches, slammed doors, insults that seemed cutting at the time, and later insults that did cut, leaving her mother weeping in the car in parking lots. Clara had moved out as early as possible. She’d lived with some questionable people and dated others until she’d gotten her shit together in a new city. At first, her parent’s phone calls came weekly. She’d ignored them until they tapered off. Never blocking the number, she’d let it ring to voicemail and erase them immediately. Her father had to come knock on her door to tell Clara the news.
Her mother had died never knowing what exactly she’d done to her daughter. By the end of her life she’d stopped letting it bother her.
Her mother looked at peace inside the casket. Clara hadn’t seen her since she left home. Old age had fit her well. A procession of family and friends took their turns in front of the deceased. They spoke of her mother’s endless love to give. The charity work she’d devoted herself to later in life. The garden that she’d tended to where, drawn by her radiance, life seemed to burst forth from the earth. It was a tide of praise that washed past Clara, who remained unmentioned and untouched.
Clara had never figured out what her mother had done to destroy their relationship. It hadn’t bothered her until now as she sat dry-eyed in the back of the church feeling the baby kick.
It was a girl.
