The old woman's heart softened the moment her eyes met Clara's. That face—those gentle eyes, the curve of her smile—she looked so much like him. Her son. Her only boy.
He had left years ago, full of dreams and determination. She had watched him go with pride and worry tangled together, promising herself she would see him again. But then came the news—cold, cruel, final. Her son was gone. Just like that, the light of her life extinguished.
For years she had lived with that ache, the kind that never truly fades. But then, she saw Clara. The first time she laid eyes on her, something deep inside her stirred. That familiar spark. Clara looked every inch like him—his eyes, his quiet determination, even the way she carried herself. She didn't need proof. A mother knows.
She had been following her from afar for weeks, wanting to be sure, wanting to know before she said anything. But fate was a strange thing. The very day she decided to approach Clara, she got into an accident.
And now, lying in this hospital bed, she held the hand of her grandchild—her son's daughter. The warmth of that small hand in hers made all the pain fade away.
"Do we… know each other?" Clara asked gently.
She smiled through the exhaustion, her heart full. "Not yet, dear," she said softly. "But I have a feeling we will."
There was so much she wanted to say. So much she had kept buried in her heart. But she could see the weight Clara carried behind those tired eyes—responsibilities, hurt, secrets. No, she thought. Not now. It would only make things harder for her.
She would wait. Just a little longer.
"At least you're okay, ma'am," Clara said, her voice warm and sincere as she gave her hand a light squeeze.
The old woman's chest tightened. Why did it feel like she was being left behind?
Clara turned to the nurse and said, "I have somewhere I need to be. Is there a relative coming to check on her?"
"Yes," the nurse said kindly. "Her daughter will be here shortly. You can leave."
Her grandchild was leaving. The only piece of her son left in this world was walking out the door, and her frail fingers couldn't hold on tight enough. She tried anyway, but her hand trembled and slipped from Clara's.
A few minutes after Clara left, the door opened again.
"Mom," a familiar voice said sharply. Melissa hurried in, worry written all over her face. "What were you thinking, going out alone? You could've been seriously hurt!"
The old woman smiled faintly. "I'm alright, dear. Don't be upset."
Melissa sat beside the bed, frustration softening into concern. "You scared me."
Her mother chuckled weakly. "I saw her, Melissa."
"Who?"
"My grandchild."
Melissa blinked, the color draining from her face. "Mom, please don't start this again," she whispered. "You know Michael… he's gone. He didn't marry, he didn't have children."
The old woman shook her head, stubborn even in her frailty. "No. I saw her. She's his daughter, I'm sure of it. She looks just like him. You'd know if you saw her too."
"Mom…" Melissa's voice broke.
Her mother's eyes softened, calm and sure. "I know what I saw. My heart knows."
Melissa turned her face away, quietly sobbing into her hands. "You keep saying that. Every time you talk about him, you sound like you're waiting for him to come home. It hurts, Mom. He's gone. Please stop torturing yourself."
The old woman reached for her daughter's hand, her touch weak but steady. "He may be gone, but a part of him lives on. I saw her, Melissa. She was right here."
Melissa cried harder, unable to answer.
The old woman just smiled faintly and closed her eyes for a moment, letting the memory of Clara's gentle voice and warm hand fill her heart.
Even if no one believed her, she knew the truth. Her son's child was alive—and she had finally met her.