“Not to you, perhaps.”
He was silent.
Ruth wiped her cheek.
“I love her, Jonah. But sometimes I feel as though I am trying to earn a place that can never be mine.”
He took her hands.
“Then don’t try to take Anne’s place. Take your own.”
She looked at him.
“What if Clara never wants me there?”
“She already does. She’s simply afraid that wanting you means she’s betraying her mother.”
Ruth’s expression softened.
“I had not thought of it that way.”
“Neither had I, until now.”
He squeezed her hands.
“I’ll speak with her.”
“Gently.”
“Gently.”
That night, Jonah sat beside Clara’s bed and told her a story about a little girl who had two kinds of love in her life.
“One love came from the mother who carried her and brought her into the world,” he said. “The other came from a woman who chose to share her home, her time, and her heart.”
Clara listened quietly.
“Does that mean Mama doesn’t love me anymore?”
Jonah felt the old ache rise in his chest.
“No, sweetheart. Your mother loved you with all she had. Nothing can change that.”
“Then why did she go away?”
He brushed a curl from her forehead.
“She was very ill, and her body could not get well.”
Clara looked toward the doorway, where Ruth stood silently.
“Will Ruth go away, too?”
Jonah glanced at his wife.
“I don’t think so.”
Clara’s eyes filled.
“What if I love her and then she leaves?”
Ruth came to the bedside and knelt.
“Clara, I cannot promise that life will never change. No one can. But I can promise that I want to stay with you. I want to be here when you learn to read, when you lose your first tooth, when you grow tall enough to reach the top shelf. I want to help you when you are frightened and laugh with you when something is funny.”
Clara sniffed.
“Even if I’m cross?”
“Even then.”
“Even if I don’t eat porridge?”
Ruth smiled.
“Especially then. Someone must be here to remind you that porridge is not the enemy.”
Clara gave a small laugh.
Then she reached out and took Ruth’s hand.
“Will you sit with me until I fall asleep?”
Ruth looked at Jonah.