Life can be astonishingly complex and unpredictable, especially for those whose hearts are filled with love and care. Clara Thompson once experienced the joy of motherhood and the happiness of family life, but fate, like a whimsical artist, painted her days with dark and heavy strokes. Now, in her deep retirement years, she faced the necessity of making heart-wrenching decisions that, though painful, might be the only right ones. After all, sometimes love demands harsh measures to save those we cherish most in the world—especially when it comes to an only son.
Today, Clara Thompson woke up late. She savored the bright rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains and was in no hurry to get out of bed. There was no rush in her life anymore. For seven years, she had been retired, with no one to care for, really.
She could allow herself to linger a bit longer in the warmth of her bed, but something deep in her soul troubled her, as if unease had taken root inside. Everything seemed fine, with no apparent reason for worry, yet the feeling of anxiety wouldn’t let go. Clara rose from bed, freshened up, and put the kettle on the stove.
Approaching the window, she gazed at the sky, which had turned a vibrant crimson over the house across the street. Soon, the low winter sun would appear, heralding the first frosts after two weeks of mild weather. “Good thing it’s getting chilly again,” Clara thought, removing the boiling kettle from the stove.
Her thoughts quickly shifted to daily chores. “I’ll have some tea and then head to the store.” She took her favorite mug and sipped the tea slowly, savoring the warmth spreading through her body.
Clara was petite and frail, and even after giving birth to her only son, her figure remained graceful and slender. Her husband, a tall and sturdy man, used to affectionately call her Clarabelle or simply Bunny. But it had been ten years since he passed, and now she keenly felt her loneliness.
Clara raised the mug to her lips when a sharp knock at the door startled her. Her hand jerked, and hot tea spilled over the rim, scalding her thin, age-spotted skin. The pain was so sharp that she nearly dropped the mug.
Here came trouble, right on cue. Her intuition, as always, hadn’t failed her this time. But what would happen next? The thought flickered in her mind.
Before she could dwell on it, the knock came again, louder and more insistent, demanding her immediate attention. Wincing from the pain, Clara blew on her burned hand and, grumbling under her breath, headed to the door. Who could it be at this hour? she muttered, approaching the entrance.
But when she opened the door, a large man in rumpled clothes stood on the doorstep. Clara Thompson didn’t immediately recognize her son. “Daniel?” she gasped, noticing how much he had changed.
Daniel, too, seemed taken aback, seeing how his mother had aged. “Hey, Mom, your guest has arrived!” he said with an awkward smile, as if snapping out of a daze. “Daniel, is that really you? Why didn’t you call?” Clara said, pressing herself against his chest. “I wasn’t expecting you.”