Chapter 16
It started with a cough.
A small, persistent cough that wouldn’t go away.
The doctor said it was bronchitis.
Gave her antibiotics.
Told her to rest.
But she didn’t get better.
She got tired.
Really tired.
She stopped baking.
Stopped gardening.
Stopped reading to the girls at night.
She just sat in her chair by the window, staring out at the yard.
We took her to a specialist.
He ran tests.
Lots of tests.
Then he sat us down in his office.
And told us.
Lung cancer.
Advanced.
Spread to her bones.
Six months, he said.
Maybe a year if she was lucky.
The world stopped.
I held James’ hand under the table.
He was shaking.
Clara was the only mother he’d ever really had.
The only one who’d ever loved him unconditionally.
The only one who’d stood by us.
She couldn’t die.
Not now.
Not when we were all so happy.
Clara took the news better than any of us.
She held our hands.
She wiped our tears.
“Now, now,” she said. “None of that. I’ve had a good, long life. I’ve seen things I never thought I’d see. I’ve loved and been loved. I got to watch my boy become a good man. I got to meet these two amazing granddaughters. I got to be part of this wonderful family. Most people never get that. I’m lucky. So very lucky.”
She paused, smiling through her tears.
“And I’ll get to see Daniel again. I’ve missed that little boy. I’ve got a lot of stories to tell him.”
The next six months were the hardest and the most beautiful of our lives.
We made Clara as comfortable as possible.
We set up her bed in the living room, so she could see the yard.
See the girls playing.
See the sun rise and set.
Hospice came every day.
They were wonderful.
Kind.
Gentle.
We took turns sitting with her.
Holding her hand.
Talking to her.
Telling her stories.
The girls spent every minute they could with her.
They read to her.
Sang to her.
Drew her pictures.
Told her about their days.
Lily told her all about the boy she liked at school.
Grace told her all about the stray cat she wanted to adopt.
Clara listened to every word.
She gave advice.
She laughed.
She cried.
She loved them with everything she had.
One night, about a week before she died, she called all of us into the living room.
James and I.
The girls.
Darlene.
Sarah.
Detective Rao and his wife.
All the people she loved.
She was weak.
Her voice was barely a whisper.
But her eyes were bright.
“I want to tell you all something,” she said. “Life is short. Too short. Don’t waste it being angry. Don’t waste it holding grudges. Don’t waste it chasing money or power or things that don’t matter. The only thing that matters at the end of the day is love. Who you loved. Who loved you. The memories you made together. That’s all you take with you. That’s all you leave behind.”
She looked at each of us, one by one.
“Promise me you’ll remember that. Promise me you’ll love each other. Take care of each other. Forgive each other. Life is too short for anything else.”
We all promised.
Through our tears.
She died a week later.
In her sleep.
Holding James’ hand.
With all of us around her.
It was peaceful.
Beautiful.
The way death should be.
We buried her under the big oak tree in the yard.
Right next to Daniel.
We put a stone with her name on it.
And the words: Loved much. Loved well.
The girls visited her stone every day.
They told her about their days.
They left her flowers.
They left her drawings.
They talked to her like she was still there.
And maybe she was.
I’d like to think so.
I’d like to think she was sitting right there with Daniel.
Watching over us.
Smiling.
Proud.
The months after Clara died were hard.
The house was too quiet.
Too empty.
We all missed her.
Terribly.
But slowly, surely, the pain softened.
It didn’t go away.
It never would.
But it became easier to bear.
We remembered the good times.
Her laugh.
Her cookies.
Her stories.
Her love.
And we kept our promise to her.
We loved each other harder.
We held each other tighter.
We forgave faster.
We lived every day like it was a gift.
Because it was.
May you like
Clara had taught us that.
And we would never forget it.
