“We talked.”
“You and my mother?”
“Several times.”
Mother looked at the photograph.
“Miriam had fears of her own. She worried Thomas would want to bring you into a wealthy family and that your whole life would change.”
Clara gave a faint smile.
“She hated rich people.”
“I am aware.”
Despite everything, Mother laughed.
“Your father once sent her a very expensive Christmas gift for you. She returned it with a note saying, ‘She is seven. Buy her crayons.’”
Clara laughed through her tears.
“That was definitely my mother.”
I smiled.
“What did Father do?”
“Bought crayons.”
“Expensive crayons?”
“Extremely.”
We all laughed then.
It lasted only a few seconds.
But it loosened something in the room.
Mother settled back.
“Over time, Miriam and I understood that we were both doing the same thing.”
“What?” Clara asked.
“Deciding for our children what truths they could handle.”
Her gaze moved between us.
