Chapter 46 – Crayons and Regrets

Third-Person POV

Clara stood in the center of the small living room, a damp rag in one hand and a half-cleaned plastic cup in the other.

The house was a quiet mess.

Crayon drawings covered one side of the wall like a confused mural—stick figures, suns with too many rays, a crooked house, and a dog with wings.

She had stopped scrubbing them off two weeks ago. What was the point? Every time she wiped one away, three more would appear.

The floor was cluttered with tiny socks, Legos, snack wrappers, and a pair of scissors someone had used to trim the fake flowers on the windowsill.

A piece of blue yarn hung from the ceiling fan, tied there during one of the children’s “science experiments.” She didn’t know which of them had done it. Probably Nate. Or Jay. Maybe even Zoey. They were always up to something.

With a deep, heavy sigh, she dropped the rag into the water bucket beside her and slumped into the nearest chair.

Her knees cracked. Her back ached. Her arms felt like rubber.

She leaned her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

The fan blades spun lazily above her head, clicking every few seconds, like it was struggling to keep going. Just like her.

The silence in the house was too loud.

She hated when the kids weren’t around, not because she missed the noise, but because it gave her time to think. To remember.

She looked toward the faded curtain by the window. The morning breeze had pushed it aside, letting in golden sunlight that danced over the cracked tiles. But it also showed how thin the fabric had become, like a single touch could tear it in half.

It reminded her of herself.

Worn thin.

She used to be proud.

She used to dream.

But now, she just tried to survive. And watch her daughter survive too.

Her eyes drifted to the corner of the room, to a dusty shelf holding old framed pictures.

One of them showed Mannie in her graduation gown—bright-eyed, smiling, holding her certificate like a trophy.

Clara’s throat tightened.

She used to think Mannie would change the world. She had men lining up for her back then—good, responsible ones. All from decent homes. Men who wanted to marry her daughter properly. To build a life with her.

Now…

She closed her eyes, her jaw tightening.

Now, who would want a woman with eight children?

Clara didn’t blame them.

Even she, their own grandmother, sometimes felt like she couldn’t handle it all. The food bills, the noise, the school runs, the broken appliances. The gossip from neighbors. The way women whispered at the market. The stares. The pity.

Clara’s fingers dug into the armrest.

She didn’t blame Mannie. Not really.

But she did wish things had turned out differently. That her daughter hadn’t trusted that man. That whoever he was hadn’t ruined her life and left her carrying the weight of a broken promise—and eight little mouths to feed.

She stood up slowly, brushing her skirt down and moving toward the cluttered table.

The old clock on the wall ticked into the late afternoon. Her muscles ached from all the cleaning, but she still hadn’t finished folding the laundry. The kids would be back soon. Mannie too, hopefully. She had said she would try not to be late.

But lately, “try” had become a word soaked in exhaustion.

Clara checked her phone.

1 New Message.

Her heart jumped.

She unlocked the phone quickly, only to find it wasn’t from Mannie.

It was from the community group.

Clara stared at the group name for a moment. She had fought tooth and nail to be added to that chat—just to stay informed. To know when there were local meetings or donations. But most times, it just made her feel worse.

Today was no different.

Dozens of new pictures flooded the chat.

She tapped one.

It opened into a high-definition photo of a long buffet table, decorated with gold-edged plates and flowers that probably cost more than her monthly income. The women posing behind it were all familiar faces—wives of wealthy men, dressed in silk and satin, their skin glowing, their smiles wide. They held wine glasses like trophies.

Clara zoomed in on one face.

Zarah’s mother.

She was laughing in the center of the photo, draped in a glittering scarf, her hair pinned up neatly. The caption read: “Mrs. Grant’s Pre-Birthday Brunch! Such a delightful gathering ”

Clara’s thumb hovered over the screen. Then, out of politeness or habit, she tapped the heart icon.

The photo disappeared.

Her reflection flashed faintly on the dark screen.

All the joy she had managed to muster drained from her face. She set the phone down and rubbed her forehead. The headache that had been brewing all morning pressed harder behind her eyes.

“How I wish things would just get better,” she whispered.

She made her way slowly toward the bathroom. She needed to shower. She needed to pick up the kids soon. She needed to keep going.

But she was so, so tired.

She turned the tap. The old pipe groaned, then water splashed out, lukewarm and a little rusty.

Her shoulders drooped.

As she stepped out of the bathroom minutes later, wrapping a towel around her hair, her phone began pinging again.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

Clara frowned.

She picked it up.

The community chat again.

Curious, she opened the app.

This time, the pictures were different. They were blurry , probably taken from a distance.

A sleek black car, polished like obsidian, parked on the other side of the community. People had gathered, whispering, snapping photos. The license plate wasn’t local. The car itself looked foreign, like something from a different world.

Someone had posted:

“He’s rich. Probably came to visit a hidden relative here. But who??”

Another message followed:

“No one’s claiming him. Maybe he made a wrong turn?”

Clara stared at the photo.

Her chest tightened again.

She didn’t know who it was.

But she knew it wasn’t for them.

She closed the app and placed the phone on the table. Then she reached for her keys.

It was time to go pick up the children.

She wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders and stepped out into the fading sunlight. The wind had picked up, blowing dust across the cracked pavement.

Her shoes tapped softly on the road as she walked. The bus stop wasn’t far, but she didn’t want to spend money today. Not on transport. Not when they still had dinner to worry about.

Her thoughts wandered as she walked.

To Mannie.

To how she had once used her little savings to help Zarah finish school. Zarah had been crying back then, needing money for registration. Clara remembered how Mannie had said, “She’s still family, Mom. We can’t let her drop out.”

Now Zarah’s family celebrated birthdays with five-course meals, while Mannie counted coins for bread.

Clara stopped briefly by a lamppost and looked up at the darkening sky.

“The human heart,” she muttered. “It changes too fast.”

She turned the corner.

The school was up ahead.

And even before she reached the gate, she could already hear the kids.

Laughing.

Screaming.

Living.

And as the noise grew louder, the weight on Clara’s shoulders lifted just a little.

Because no matter how hard things got, no matter how many wishes went unanswered, there was one truth she still held close:

Mannie’s kids were alive, healthy, and full of life.

And as long as that stayed true… she’d keep going.