There were things that Claire had never done. She had never, for instance, said I love you and meant it. It wasn’t something she felt bitter about, simply an abstract idea she had never bought into.
When she was much younger, her mother had tried to explain love. “It’s when you wake up next to someone and you feel grateful and right,” her mother had said, eyes lifting to the light from the open window in the kitchen.
“Is that how you feel with dad?” She had asked. Her mother had smiled a tense, tentative smile. “Of course, dear.” Her mother started to wash the dishes, and Charlotte carefully inscribed what she said in her diary…
The concluding piece of the short story I’ve been posting for the past few days. If you haven’t read the previous parts, perhaps now’s a good time to read it in its entirety!
