After all—my mother was there. My sisters were there. Clara was there.
It should have been fine.
But while I was busy holding everything together—
Clara was falling apart… alone.
That Friday night, I got home just after ten.
Laughter filled the living room. The TV was loud. My sisters lounged across the couch, surrounded by takeout containers. My mother sat comfortably nearby.
For a moment, everything looked normal.
Too normal.
“Where’s Clara?” I asked.
“She’s in the kitchen,” one of my sisters replied without looking up.
I walked down the hallway.
And then I saw her.
Clara stood at the sink, hands buried in soapy water. The dishes were piled high—greasy pans, crusted plates, leftovers from hours… maybe days.
Her shoulders sagged under the weight.
