Chapter 16
Clara’s letters became part of Ethan’s life slowly.
On his fourth birthday, Evelyn gave him the envelope marked FOUR.
He could not read much.
So I read it aloud.
Clara wrote about his laugh.
His stubborn feet.
How he hated socks.
Still true.
Ethan asked:
“Clara my first mom?”
“Yes.”
“Evie mom too?”
Evelyn looked at me.
I answered:
“If that’s what you feel.”
He shrugged.
“Two moms.”
Simple.
Bianca had spent years treating motherhood like a chair only one woman could occupy.
A child solved the problem in two words.
Two moms.
No theft.
No replacement.
Different histories.
Different love.
On his fifth birthday, he opened another letter.
Bianca was not present.
Later he asked whether Aunt Bianca knew about them.
“Yes.”
“Why hide?”
Hard.
“Because she was afraid you would love Clara more.”
He looked genuinely confused.
“I don’t know Clara.”
Exactly.
Letters would help him know her.
Not reduce anyone else.
Love is not a fixed container.
Adults keep forgetting.
Ethan finally said:
“That silly.”
May you like
“Yes.”
Children are devastatingly good at reducing adult pathology to accurate adjectives.
