Over the next few weeks, I ran into Evelyn often. Sometimes at the café, sometimes by the lake. We talked more. She told me about Clara—how fiercely independent she was, how she wore Daniel’s old leather jacket even though it drowned her, and how she pushed people away, believing she had to handle grief on her own.
Then one afternoon, as we watched the sunset paint the lake gold, Evelyn turned to me.
“Would you ever consider meeting her?” she asked.
“She needs someone. Not family. Someone who’s kind but… not entangled.”
I hesitated. It felt like delicate territory. But something in me said yes.
A few days later, Evelyn invited me over for dinner. Clara opened the door.
She looked younger than I’d expected—sharp cheekbones, emerald eyes—but the grief she carried was etched into her expression, heavy and unmistakable.
We exchanged polite small talk over Evelyn’s homemade lasagna—books, music, the weather. Slowly, the conversation shifted to Daniel. Clara’s answers were short at first, guarded. But as the evening wore on, something softened.
“I miss him every day,” she said, staring into her wine glass. “Not just the big moments. The little ones. Like how he always stole the blanket during movies. Or sang off-key in the shower.”
She didn’t bother wiping the tears away. She just let them fall. That moment of honesty—raw, unfiltered—was more powerful than any comforting words.
