No father. No extended family that mattered. Just Margaret and Claire.
When I was little and Father’s Day projects filled the classroom, I’d come home quiet. My mother would smooth her skirt, look at me with that unreadable expression, and say, “It’s always been you and me. That’s more than enough.”
I told myself it was.
But love in our house was practical. Structured. Distant.She made sure I had school supplies, piano lessons, warm coats in winter. What she didn’t give were long hugs or soft reassurances. When I cried, she’d pat my shoulder instead of pulling me close. When I asked to sleep in her bed after a nightmare, she’d pause and say gently, “You’re a big girl, Claire. You’ll be fine.”
And I would walk back to my room and try to believe her.
She came to my college graduation, sat straight-backed in the bleachers, and clapped politely. When I hugged her afterward, she stiffened slightly.
“I’m proud of you.”It sounded rehearsed.
Still, I never doubted she was my mother.
Until the day her will proved otherwise.
“Is this Margaret’s daughter, Claire?”
“Yes.”
“This is Harold, your mother’s attorney. I’m very sorry to inform you that she passed away this afternoon after a long illness.”
