“Clara, you come home right now. I don’t want you out there anymore.”
“But…I thought—”
“No,” her mother hisses. “You’re not thinking.”
“You wante—”
“No.” Her mother laughs this time and grits, “Honey, you’re notthinking. Come home immediately.”
“But Lukas wants to marry me,” Clara says.
Silence.
Dead, encompassing, powerfulsilence.
Clara’s breaths quiver. I squeeze her and adjust my own breaths for her to mimic. In. One, two, three, four. Out. Come on, cutie pie.
She latches on,breathes.
“Without meeting your mother first? Without asking your father for your hand?” Her mother tuts, huffs, changes her tune to a new devious plot. “No. I won’t hear of that.”
“He really wants to, though.” Clara sniffles. “I’ve already saidyes.”
That is news to me.
Great news.
Unless it’s just to press more confessions out of her mother. I understand this feeling. After my parents died and I realized how horrible a number on me they did, I would have givenanythingto find some kind of closure, to press on their nonsense, to make it break apart into the truth.
I wanted to know that they knew when they hit all of us—justbeat usto the bone—they werewrong.
Clara’s parents being wrong and knowing on some level that they’re wrong makes it so much easier to justify being right, and—in the case of abusers who are still alive—makes it so much easier to cut them off.
Oblivious bad actions receive grace.
Intentional abuse…is easier to separate from. Even if it isstillso hard.
“You saidyesto getting married even though your husband-to-be hasn’t met yourmotheryet?” the woman exclaims.
“I thought that—”
“Shut up, Clara. How could you?”
Her mother beingverystrict about guarding the information of her little schemes must be ringing loud in my poor Clara’s ears. Because, wildly enough, Clara isnotstupid. I wish I could comfort her verbally through this without making her anxiety worse.
I’mhere, sweetness. Right here. You’re so perfect. You’re doing so well. This is hard. You’re so strong.
“I’m sorry,” Clara whispers. “I…didn’t know.”
“Your father has a project at work this week, but then we’re coming to see you.”
Her breaths stop. “What?”
“And if I don’t approve of this relationship, you’re coming home with us.”
Clara’s grip in my hairtugs. “Mom—”
“I’ll not hear another word about it. That man has practically kidnapped you, and I will not stand for it. See you Saturday.”
