Clara
I named her Clara, after the tiny onesie she wore with her name stitched in purple thread.
I brought her home to a noisy, creaking house full of animals nobody wanted. She belonged immediately. She was not a burden. She was light.
But not everyone saw it that way.
The neighbors whispered. My son barged in one day, furious.
“You’re insane,” he spat. “You’ll be dead before she’s grown. This humiliates the family.”
I held Clara tighter, her tiny hand clutching my sweater like a lifeline. “Then I’ll love her with every breath until that day comes.” And when he sneered, I showed him the door.
