Clara had changed as well.
Different hairstyle.
Different surname.
One brief afternoon inside a crowded art room had been buried beneath two decades of life.
Until a three-year-old recognized a crooked sun.
Ariel reached toward Clara’s stomach.
Clara nodded permission.
Ariel touched one finger to the lighthouse.
“Daddy made it pretty.”
Clara gave a small laugh, though tears filled her eyes.
“He did.”
Ariel traced the tiny sun.
No one said anything.
Those three words seemed to settle across every year separating us.
The sketch.
The scar.
The life that came afterward.
For the first time, I saw Clara differently.
Not merely as the woman beside my father.
Not as the person who entered our home after my mother died.
But as someone who had once sat frightened inside a community center, unable to face her own reflection, asking strangers to draw her a reason to keep looking.
The realization should have softened me immediately.
