“Sometimes.”
Her voice became softer.
“I wish I’d had more time with your mother.”
“Our mother?”
Clara looked at me.
I had never called Eleanor that to her before.
Technically, Eleanor was not Clara’s mother.
But biology had become a less useful map of our family.
Clara smiled.
“Your mother.”
I nodded.
Fair enough.
“She loved you,” I said.
“I know.”
That was enough.
We sat until the streetlights came on.
Before leaving, Clara reached into her bag.
“I have something for you.”
She handed me a small box.
Inside was my father’s old watch.
The broken one.
I stared at it.
“You stole this.”
“I borrowed it.”
“It was in my desk.”
“You gave me a key.”
“That was clearly an error.”
“Look at it.”
I did.
The second hand moved.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
“You had it repaired.”
“Yes.”
I touched the glass.
For years I had kept that watch frozen at 4:17 because that was how I remembered Father’s life after he died.
