Mother looked small between us.
But peaceful.
“I have one final request,” she said.
I immediately became tense.
Mother noticed.
“Nothing dramatic.”
“That is exactly what someone says before something dramatic.”
Clara smiled.
Mother looked at me.
“Stop living here.”
I blinked.
“In the garden?”
“In this house.”
“What?”
“You hate it.”
“I do not hate it.”
“You have hated it since your father died.”
“That’s not true.”
Clara became very interested in the leaves.
Mother continued.
“You kept every room the same because changing anything felt disloyal.”
I looked toward the mansion.
She was right.
“And you,” Mother said to Clara.
Clara looked up.
“Yes?”
“Stop treating belonging as something temporary.”
Clara frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“You keep one foot near the door.”
“That’s practical.”
“It’s lonely.”
Clara’s smile disappeared.
Mother took both our hands.
“I do not care who lives in this house.”
