“Did he blame you?” I asked.
“For what?”
“Being friends with her.”
“No. I didn’t know.”
Mother looked at Clara.
“When I learned about you, you were already six.”
Clara absorbed that quietly.
“What did you think?”
Mother did not rush the answer.
“I was jealous.”
The word surprised us both.
She smiled without humor.
“There. At my age, one should be allowed to admit unattractive things.”
Clara’s voice was soft.
“Of me?”
“Not you.”
Mother shook her head.
“Of what you represented.”
“My father’s other life.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the garden.
“I had spent years believing I understood the shape of my marriage. Then suddenly there was a child. A good child, by all accounts. A child Thomas cared about.”
She swallowed.
“And I was ashamed of myself because my first reaction was fear.”
I reached for her hand.
She let me take it.
“I worried he would love you less,” she said to me.
