One Saturday, she took me shopping for curtains. We spent nearly an hour debating colors before choosing pale green fabric that matched the sunlight streaming through her new apartment.
At the checkout counter, Clara suddenly began crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She laughed through her tears. “Nothing. That’s the wonderful part. I can buy curtains without being afraid that someone will punish me for choosing the wrong color.”
I embraced her in the middle of the store.
On my seventy-third birthday, Clara organized a small dinner at Willow Creek. There were six guests, a homemade chocolate cake, and a vase filled with yellow chrysanthemums.
After everyone left, she handed me a card. Inside, she had written a message that I read three times before I could speak.
You didn’t just open a bathroom door that night. You opened the door to the rest of my life. Thank you for believing what you saw, even when it hurt.
