Every laugh Emily shared with friends, every careless mention of the future, Clara clung to as though it might be the last. She found herself whispering small prayers again—not for strength this time, but for delay, for silence, for anything that would keep the past from clawing its way into the present.
When Emily bounced into the kitchen one morning and chirped, “Any news yet, Mom?” Clara smiled, her teeth pressed tight together. “Not yet,” she said softly. “Any day now.” She kept her voice light, though each word carried the weight of dread.