Me arrodillé a su lado y aparté suavemente un mechón de pelo de su cara.
"¿Qué ha pasado?"
Antes de que pudiera responder, la puerta principal se abrió.
Clarissa salió con la misma calma como si estuviera hablando del tiempo.
"No tienes que interrogarla."
Me levanté despacio.
“I’m not interrogating anyone.”
She folded her arms.
“I cleaned out the room.”
I stared at her.
“You what?”
“My house isn’t a shelter.”
She said it so casually that for a moment I wondered whether she’d heard herself.
Behind her, I could see straight into Emily’s bedroom.
The shelves where the teddy bears had been lined up were empty.
The storage bins were gone.
Every trace of two months of work had vanished.
“My house isn’t a shelter,” Clarissa repeated.
“It was time somebody stopped turning it into one.”
I looked past her toward the empty room.
Then I noticed something near the curb.
A torn black trash bag sat beside the garbage cans.
A few wisps of white stuffing poked through a rip near the bottom.
Tiny scraps of brown fabric fluttered in the morning breeze.
I didn’t need to look any closer.
I already knew.
Emily noticed where I was looking.
She lowered her head.
“I tried to get them back.”
My heart shattered.
Clarissa shrugged.
“They were just toys.”
No.
They weren’t.
They were fifty Saturdays.
Fifty dreams.
Thousands of stitches.
Hundreds of hours.
They were the last project inspired by a little girl who still carried her mother’s kindness everywhere she went.
But Clarissa had reduced all of that to garbage.
I turned back toward her.
For a long moment neither of us spoke.
Then I smiled.
A calm, quiet smile.
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