Daniel hesitated.
“She’s my grandmother.”
The answer hurt more than Clara expected.
“She abandoned us.”
“She made mistakes.”
Clara stared at him in disbelief.
“Mistakes?”
Daniel’s expression tightened.
“You never tell me anything about what happened back then.”
“Because you were a child.”
“I’m not anymore.”
The words landed heavily.
Clara opened her mouth, then closed it again.
He was right.
Somewhere during these past months away, her son had crossed quietly into adulthood while she wasn’t looking.
Daniel lowered his voice.
“She talks about you all the time.”
Clara’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“She remembers little things. Your favorite soup when you were seven. The red coat you used to wear to school. The way you sang when you were nervous.”
“Stop.”
“She loves you.”
“No,” Clara whispered immediately. “Don’t do that.”
Daniel looked genuinely confused.
“She does.”
Clara shook her head slowly.
“Love is not enough, Daniel.”
The kitchen fell silent.
After a moment, Daniel leaned against the counter opposite her, exhaustion visible in every movement.
“She kept asking when you’d come home.”
Clara swallowed hard.
“And?”
“And she was scared.”
Fear.
Another familiar thing.
Her mother had always been scared. Of men. Of loneliness. Of poverty. Of silence. Of herself.
And somehow everyone around her had spent years drowning beside that fear.
Clara rubbed both hands over her face.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“She destroyed every good thing she touched.”
Daniel was quiet for a long time.
Then he asked softly, “Including you?”
The question sliced cleanly through her defenses.
Clara looked at her son and suddenly saw how young he still was beneath the exhaustion. How desperately he wanted to understand something nobody had ever explained to him properly.
But how could she explain?
How could she describe years of hiding bruises beneath sweaters because Elena always chose the wrong men?
How could she explain the endless cycle of apologies and disasters and promises that never lasted?
How could she explain loving someone who kept handing pieces of themselves to people who broke them?
“She wasn’t always bad,” Clara said finally.
Daniel said nothing.
“That’s the worst part,” she admitted quietly.
His expression softened.
Before either of them could speak again, a violent crash came from the bedroom.
All three of them moved instantly.
Michael was already beside the bed when Clara reached the doorway. One of the medicine bottles had shattered across the floor. Elena was bent forward coughing violently into a cloth stained with fresh blood.
Daniel rushed to her side.
Clara stopped cold.
The blood looked too bright.
