There was a crazy woman who always told Clara that she was her real mother every time Clara and her friends walked home after school…
Every afternoon, Clara and her two best friends, Mia and Jordan, took the same route home from school — down Maple Street, past the bakery, and across the old park where a woman in torn clothes always sat on the same bench.
Most days, the woman muttered nonsense to herself, clutching a worn-out teddy bear. But one day, as Clara walked by, the woman suddenly stood up and shouted, “Clara! Clara, it’s me! I’m your real mother!”
The kids froze. Mia whispered, “Just ignore her,” and they hurried away, laughing nervously. But Clara didn’t laugh. Her chest tightened, and for some reason, the woman’s voice stuck in her head.
After that, it became routine — every day, the same thing. The woman would call her name, sometimes softly, sometimes screaming. Teachers said she was just a local homeless woman with mental issues. Clara’s adoptive parents, Mark and Elaine Carter, told her to stay away. “She’s dangerous, sweetheart,” Elaine said, pulling her close. “Don’t go near her.”
But late at night, Clara couldn’t stop thinking about her. How did that woman know her name? How did she know the tiny birthmark behind Clara’s ear — the one no one ever mentioned?
And then, one rainy afternoon, when Clara dropped her notebook while crossing the park, the woman bent down to pick it up. “You have your father’s eyes,” she whispered, pressing the notebook into Clara’s hands. “They told me you died.”
Clara ran home, drenched and shaking. “Mom,” she said, “that woman— she knew things. She knew about the mark behind my ear.”
Elaine froze. Mark looked at the floor. For the first time, the house felt unbearably quiet.
After a long pause, Elaine sighed. “Clara, there are things we haven’t told you. We adopted you when you were two. The agency said your mother… she wasn’t well. She left you at a shelter.”
Clara felt the air leave her lungs. “So she’s real. That woman…”
“She’s sick,” Elaine said quickly. “You can’t believe anything she says.”
But curiosity gnawed at Clara. The next day, she went alone. The woman, whose name was Lydia, sat under the same tree, clutching the same bear. When Clara approached, Lydia’s eyes filled with tears.
“They told me you’d been taken,” she said softly. “I searched for years. I wasn’t crazy, Clara — I was grieving.”
She handed Clara a faded photo. A young woman with bright eyes held a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket — the same blanket Clara still kept in her room.
“Please,” Lydia whispered. “Just hear me out.”
