There was a disturbed woman who always told Clara that she was her real mother whenever Clara and her friends walked home from school. At first, Clara thought it was just a joke by a homeless woman, but every word and every look from that woman sowed indescribable confusion in her mind. It was something familiar yet strange, making each afternoon’s walk home filled with tension and fear, as if a secret lurked right in front of her.

Every afternoon, Clara and her two best friends, Mia and Jordan, walked the same way home from school. They went down Maple Street, where the trees cast long shadows across the sidewalk, past the bakery with its aroma of freshly baked bread, and then along a small path that led to the old park, where a woman in tattered clothes always sat on the same antique bench. The bench was worn, the paint peeling, and the leafy trees blocked the light of the setting sun. The woman clutched an old teddy bear, her cloudy eyes staring into space and muttering unintelligible words. Every trembling movement and every squeeze of the bear filled Clara with both fear and curiosity, her heart aching every time their eyes met.

Mia and Jordan usually avoided her, forcing smiles, and sometimes they hurried away. But Clara couldn’t. There was something about the woman’s trembling voice and deep eyes that kept her glued to the spot. She wondered: How does she know my name? How does she know about the birthmark behind my ear?

One day, while passing through the park, the woman suddenly stood up, her hair disheveled and her eyes reddened, and shouted:

“Clara! Clara, it’s me! I’m your real mother!”

The girls froze. Mia whispered, “Don’t pay any attention to her.” The three of them ran off, their nervous laughter a mixture of fear and haste. But Clara remained motionless, a lump in her throat, feeling an invisible thread drawing her closer to the woman. That voice kept echoing in her head, reminding her of something she still couldn’t understand.

From then on, this became routine. Every day, the woman called Clara by name, sometimes softly, sometimes shouting. Clara tried to stay away, but curiosity grew stronger than fear. The teachers said she was just a homeless person with mental health issues. Clara’s adoptive parents, Mark and Elaine Carter, warned her: “Stay away from her, she’s dangerous.” Elaine hugged her daughter tightly, her voice trembling: “Honey, listen to Mommy, don’t go near that woman.”

At night, Clara couldn’t sleep peacefully. She wondered how the woman knew her name and about the small birthmark behind her ear, something no one had ever mentioned. She felt an inexplicable urge, a mixture of curiosity and fear, that filled even her dreams with the woman’s image. Every night, the moonlight streaming through the window seemed to shine directly into her heart, igniting a fire of curiosity that was impossible to extinguish.

One rainy afternoon, as Clara was crossing the park, she dropped her notebook. The woman bent down to pick it up, her voice trembling:
“You have your father’s eyes,” she whispered, placing the notebook in Clara’s hands. “I was told you had died.”

Clara ran home, soaked and shivering. “Mom,” she murmured, “that woman… she knew strange things. She knew about the stain behind my ear.”

Elaine froze, and Mark lowered his gaze. For the first time, the house felt suffocatingly silent.

After a long silence, Elaine sighed, her voice trembling: “Clara, there are things we haven’t told you. We adopted you when you were two years old. The agency said your biological mother wasn’t stable and left you in a temporary shelter.”

Clara felt as if she couldn’t breathe. “So it’s true… that woman…”

Elaine quickly said, “She’s sick, you can’t believe anything she says.”

But curiosity continued to torment Clara. The next day, she went alone. Lydia, the woman, was sitting under the same tree, hugging the same bear. When Clara approached, Lydia’s eyes filled with tears, her face scarred but full of love.

“They told me you’d been kidnapped,” she said softly, her voice trembling but firm. “I searched for you for years. I’m not crazy, Clara, I was suffering.”

He handed Clara a faded photograph. A young woman with bright eyes was holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket, the same blanket Clara still kept in her room.

“Please,” Lydia whispered. “Just listen to me.”

During the following weeks, Clara met secretly with Lydia. Every story Lydia told matched fragments of Clara’s childhood: the lullaby, the scar on her knee, the name “Estrella” that no one else knew had ever identified her.

Finally, Clara couldn’t take it anymore. She confronted her adoptive parents. “They said she abandoned me,” she said, her voice trembling, “but that’s not true, is it?”

Mark’s eyes filled with guilt. “We didn’t know the whole truth,” he admitted. “Your birth mother was in an accident. She was in a coma for months. The system declared you abandoned before she woke up. By the time she finally recovered, it was too late. We… we couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Elaine broke down. “We were wrong to hide it from you. I was afraid you would leave us.”

Clara sat there in silence, her heart torn between gratitude and sorrow.

The next day, she took Lydia home. Elaine froze in the doorway; then, slowly, she reached out and hugged the trembling woman. For the first time, Clara saw two mothers one who had given her life and another who had fought to give her a better one crying in each other’s arms.

From that day on, the “crazy woman” was no longer a stranger. She was a mother who had never stopped searching. Clara began spending more time with Lydia, listening to her stories, helping her with her home, and sharing memories that strengthened their bond. She also learned to understand and forgive her adoptive parents, realizing that their love had been there even though the truth had been hidden.

Finally, Clara understood that the love of her biological mother and that of her adoptive parents were not opposites. They intertwined to create a strong bond that sustained her, giving her the strength to face life, truth, and pain she had previously been unable to comprehend. Clara grew up, no longer the timid little girl who came home from school, but a strong young woman who cherished every emotion, every truth, and every act of love, no matter how bitter.

💬If you were Clara, would you meet with her again or would you let the past rest in peace?