“Did you know our mother?”
Clara sat carefully.
“A little.”
“What did she look like?”
Nathaniel’s head lifted.
Ruth flushed.
“I know what she looked like.”
“I mean before us.”
Clara understood.
Children knew their parents only from the point those adults became parents.
Everything before felt mysterious.
Clara thought.
“She wore her hair very long.”
Ruth touched her own.
“Longer than yours.”
“She laughed loudly.”
Nathaniel smiled.
“Yes.”
“She had a blue shawl with white stitching.”
Ruth looked toward her father.
“We have that.”
Nathaniel nodded.
Clara continued.
“She was terrible at pretending not to be angry.”
Elias spoke from the doorway.
“She was terrible at pretending anything.”
Nathaniel gave him a look.
Elias shrugged.
Clara smiled.
“She once argued with a trader for nearly an hour because he tried paying her aunt less for baskets than he paid another family.”
Ruth's eyes warmed.
“What happened?”
“She followed him around the camp telling everyone exactly what he had done until he finally paid properly just to escape her.”
Nathaniel laughed.
Hard.
For the first time.
Ruth laughed too.
Then looked guilty.
Grief often did that.
Made joy feel disloyal.
Clara saw.
“Your mother liked laughing.”
Ruth looked at her.
“So laughing isn't leaving her behind.”
The girl’s eyes filled.
Nathaniel turned away.
Clara pretended not to notice his tears.
That night she remained at Mrs. Alvarez’s house.
Not because Nathaniel asked.
Because Samuel worsened.