To Clara, it felt like a palace.
Lily, now fourteen months old, sat in her high chair wearing a bright yellow dress. Her cheeks were round, her eyes curious, and her dark curls refused to stay in place.
She banged a plastic spoon against the tray.
“Are you helping Mommy cook?” Clara asked.
Lily responded with an enthusiastic babble.
“I thought so. You’re very good at supervising.”
Clara laughed and kissed the top of her daughter’s head.
She had changed, too.
The dark circles beneath her eyes had faded. Her auburn hair was neatly pinned back, and the navy pantsuit she wore for work fitted her perfectly.
But the greatest difference wasn’t visible in the mirror.
It was the absence of that constant, suffocating fear.
She no longer woke in the middle of the night to check her bank balance. She no longer calculated whether she could skip a meal so Lily could eat. She no longer dreaded opening the mailbox.
