That call should’ve made me feel cleaner. It didn’t. It only told me Clara had not been singled out by fate. She had been selected by a predator, and I had made the selection easy.
Our daughter arrived six weeks after that, loud and furious and perfect.
When the nurse placed her on Clara’s chest, Clara laughed through tears. It was the first sound I’d heard from her in months that didn’t carry fear underneath it. Deirdre stood near the window in those orange glasses, pretending to be interested in the weather so she could give us a private minute. Then she turned back and cried anyway.
We named our daughter Rose.
Not because of the bouquet on the floor. Because roses have thorns, and I wanted to remember that beauty without protection can still bleed.
The house is sold now. The armchair is gone. So is every bucket Minda ever touched.
Some damage leaves paperwork. Some leaves habits. Clara still checks to make sure her phone is charging at night. I still come home earlier than I used to, and not out of guilt alone. Out of practice. Out of promise.
I can’t undo the weeks she spent believing I would choose comfort over her. I can only make that lie smaller every day we live past it.
Next month, we testify, and this time I won’t miss a single thing.
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