Colorado territory, 1882. The wind came down from the mountains with a bite to it, curling through dry grass and the splintered boards of old porches. The sky had turned that peculiar shade of pewtor that always meant early snow was coming. The town’s main street was half mud, half frost, horses stamped at hitching posts. Folks muttered through their scarves. She stood last.

 The others had been bid on already, some with hope, some with desperation in their eyes. But she was the final woman on the platform, and not a soul reached for a coin. Her shoulders were wide, her belly round, her face windb blown, but composed.

 The shawl wrapped around her did little to hide the fullness of her form. Some chuckled. One man whispered, “Looks like two women stuffed into one dress.” Another chimed in louder. You buy her, you’d better reinforce your bed frame. She didn’t flinch, just stared ahead. Her chin lifted like she’d already lived through worse than the smallalness of cruel men.

 So, before you get comfortable, take a moment to like the video and subscribe, but only if you genuinely enjoy what I do here. And tell me where are you watching from and what time is it there. The auctioneer red-faced and horse cleared his throat. All right. Clara May Jenkins, 23. Hardworking, obedient, good with a needle and a skillet. $1. Anyone silence? A few snorts.

 One man tossed a rusty button into the dust, hollering. That’s all she’s worth. But then a voice came from the far edge of the street. Not loud, not laughing. $2. Heads turned. It was the tall rancher folks only half remembered. Jedadiah Cole lived out past the ridge near the dry creek that gave the town its name. Barely came in but for nails or tobacco.

Wore the same worn coat every season and never looked anyone in the eye. The auctioneer blinked. Uh well then sold. No one else bid. Clare stepped down. Her boots sunk a little in the mud. She didn’t glance back at the crowd or offer a smile to the man who bought her. she just asked softly.

 Where to Jedodiah didn’t answer right away. He tipped his hat toward the mule cart, waiting beside the merkantile. She followed. The road out of town was quiet. No one called after them. The cart rattled past frozen fields and low stone fences. Dust clung to the hems of her skirt. Her hands were folded tight in her lap, thumb rubbing a callous on her palm.

 She looked out at the land, barren, wide, aching with loneliness. He didn’t ask questions. Neither did she. It was nearly dark when they reached the ranch. The fence was falling in places. The barn door leaned on broken hinges. The house was plain and gray, as though it had given up, expecting color.

 He tied off the mule, then offered her his hand. She took it, climbing down with a quiet grunt. Inside, the house smelled faintly of wood smoke and something older dust. Maybe. There was no welcome, no flowers, just bare wood floors, a cold stove, and a single chair pulled up to a table set for one. “This is it,” Jedadiah said. “I sleep in the back.

 You’ll take this room.” She nodded. “No questions.” Later, she unpacked what little she had. One spare dress, a patchwork apron, a sewing kit, a single book with its cover nearly gone, a small tin holding dried lavender, and a faded photograph. Two little girls, dark eyed and laughing, pressed close to a much thinner version of herself.

 Outside, Jedodiah sat on the porch, pipe in hand, staring toward the empty hills. She made a small fire in the stove, boiled water, wiped down the table, didn’t wait to be told. That night, they ate in silence. He brought in some cornbread from the cellar. She heated beans. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. When he rose to go to bed, he paused at the doorway, looked at her.

 She didn’t look back, just kept sipping her tea, steam curling around her round cheeks like fog on a quiet lake. He nodded once. She slept on the cot in the front room with her boots beside her and the shawl wrapped twice around her. Outside, wind howled through cracks in the windows and coyotes called in the distance.

 No one in town would ask about her come morning. No one would remember what she looked like except him. But neither one of them would know just yet what kind of home was quietly being built, not with bricks, but with presence and silence. The morning began without words. Light filtered through the frosted panes, gray and weak, falling across the worn floorboards and catching on the curls of smoke rising from the stove.

 Clara had risen early. There was something about being in a new place that pulled her from sleep too soon. Like her body didn’t trust peace to last long. She’d found flour in a tin, lard in a croc, and milk soured but usable outside on the shelf.

 By the time Jedodiah opened the door to the front room, the kitchen smelled of biscuits. She didn’t greet him. He didn’t expect her to. He just stood for a moment, taking in the plate on the table, two thick biscuits split open, steam still rising from their centers, a pot of coffee, and slices of smoked meat she’d found wrapped in wax paper at the bottom of the cold box. He sat, ate quietly.

 She sipped her own coffee standing near the window. When he finished, he stood. I’ve got to check the fence along the north slope. Mules out back if you need anything in town. She nodded. I’ll clean. See about the pantry. He hesitated at the door. Turned back once. You don’t have to cook. I know, she said, wiping her hands on her apron. Then he left.

 She worked through the morning, sleeves rolled high on her arms. The place hadn’t been touched in months, maybe longer. Cobwebs in every corner, dust so thick on the shelves it left ridges. There were bootprints on the floor, dried mud from long ago. But there were other signs, too, smaller ones. A child’s hair ribbon stuck behind a chest of drawers, a single shoe under the bed that didn’t belong to a grown man. She didn’t ask.

 Instead, she boiled water, scrubbed, opened every window she could manage, and let the wind do what it could. By afternoon, her dress clung to her back with sweat. Her feet achd, and her hands smelled like soap and pine. She sat for a while on the porch step, sipping water and watching dust swirl across the yard.

 She saw him return near dusk, leading the mule, coat tugged tighter against the cold. He didn’t wave, didn’t smile, but when he stepped inside and smelled the stew bubbling on the stove, he paused. “I hope you eat beef,” she said. There was a sack of potatoes under the floorboard. Onions, too. He nodded once. I do. They ate together at the table again. This time she sat across from him.

 You have children? She asked. His hand paused over his spoon. His eyes didn’t rise. No, he said. Then after a moment. Not anymore. She didn’t press. Just nodded and passed him the cornbread. Later, she found an old quilt in the chest and spread it across her cot. As she blew out the lamp, she caught sight of the photograph again. Tucked into the edge of her mirror frame.

 She touched the edge, ran her thumb down the worn corner. “Mama’s still here,” she whispered to it, “Still trying. Over the next few days, things shifted. Not quickly, but small things. He brought in kindling without being asked. She mended the sleeves on his coat without comment. One morning he came in from the barn with a rabbit and laid it on the counter.

 Figured you might know what to do with it. She did. She didn’t say thank you, but he noticed the way she hummed quietly as she worked. By the end of the week, she’d taken down the torn curtains and stitched new ones from an old sheet. She put a flower, dry and brittle though it was, into a chipped cup on the windowsill.

 You don’t speak much, she said one night, not accusing, just observing. I don’t need much, she nodded, sipping her tea. Me neither, but it’s nice to hear a voice now and then. He looked at her for a long moment. Then softly, he said, “Your voice is enough.” The words hung there between them. Not romantic, not tender, just true.

 That night, as she stirred coals into life and covered the last pot for morning, she paused. For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like a burden. She felt like someone who had been expected to arrive. Not for love, not for beauty, just for usefulness, for presents, and maybe one day for something more. It was a Tuesday when Jedodiah returned with the children.

 Clare had been out in the small garden behind the house, pulling the last of the yellowed carrots from the hard earth. She stood with her apron full of roots and dirt caked under her nails when she saw the wagon roll in. Slower than usual, four children sat in the back, silent, not a word between them.

 The oldest, a boy around 10, clutched the side rail like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The smallest girl, no older than four, had her thumb in her mouth and eyes like dark puddles. Jediah said nothing as he climbed down and tied off the mule. Clare waited.

 He helped the smallest one down gently, setting her on the dirt like she might blow away. Then the other three, all wearyed and thin there from the old mission house, he said at last. They were left. None sent word around. Nobody came. She looked at the children, then back at him. What do you want done? He scratched at the back of his neck. They’ll sleep in the loft. I’ll build bunks. I can get more oats next week.

She nodded once, then set the carrots down and walked toward the children. None of them spoke, but they didn’t pull away when she knelt down in front of them. “You like stew?” she asked the oldest boy. He blinked. She nodded toward the door. “Come on in. It’s warm inside. That night, the cabin changed. There were six bowls on the table now.

 Clare portioned evenly, made sure the littlest had hers mashed. She tore the last of the bread into soft bites. Jedadia sat back, quieter than usual, as if afraid sound might shatter the fragile stillness. After supper, Clare found a set of old quilts and laid them in the loft.

 She tucked the youngest girl in with the worn edge of her own pillowcase stitched long ago with blue thread. No one cried. Not that first night, but in the silence. After the fire settled into coals, she heard the boy whisper, “Why’d you take us?” Jediah’s voice came low from the shadows. Because no one else did. The next morning, Clareay rose before the sun and made cornbread.

 She added a little sugar this time. The children ate like they hadn’t in days. By week’s end, she had written their names on small pieces of paper and tacked them above their bunks. Elijah, Ruthie, Micah, and Susanna. She sang while she washed, not loudly, just enough that the youngest started to hum along. Micah followed her everywhere.

 He didn’t speak much, but he watched her hands, her face, even the way she stirred the stew pot. She handed him a wooden spoon one afternoon and let him stir too. You got kin, Miss Clara? He asked her once. Out by the well. She wiped her hands on her apron. Had two sisters, both younger. They’re gone now. He nodded solemnly as if he understood more than a boy his age should. You cook like a mama. She blinked.

 Well, that’s something, isn’t it? The whispers began. They’d heard about the fat bride. Now they talked about the orphans, the stew, the curtain in the window. She’s trying to make a home out of nothing, one woman said with a sneer. Another replied, “She’s got the hips for motherhood, that’s for sure.” And they laughed, “Not kindly.

” But one person heard the talk and didn’t join in. Reverend Markham. He came to the ranch on Sunday afternoon, hat in hand. Clara May served him tea and bread. The children sat neatly on the porchstep, hands folded. “You’ve taken on a heavy burden,” he said. She shook her head. “Not a burden, just hungry mouths. And I’ve got hands that know how to feed.” Jedodiah said little as always.

 But when the reverend tipped his hat and rode off, Jedodiah watched him go a little longer than usual. That night, after the children were in bed and the fire was low, Clare sat in the rocker sewing a patch onto Micah’s shirt, Jedadia stood by the doorway. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” he said. She didn’t look up. Neither did you.

 He nodded once slowly. The silence returned, but this time it felt less like distance and more like something shared. In the cabin that had once held only cold walls in a man’s quiet grief, there were now muddy footprints, small voices, laughter that slipped through cracks like sunlight. Clare didn’t think about being laughed at anymore. She was too busy making sure the children had warm socks.

 The snow came early that year, soft at first, like a warning whispered under breath. Then harder, louder, until every tree bowed under the weight of it. The ranch shrank into itself, just a house, a barn, and smoke rising in a gray curl above the chimney. But inside, something grew.

 Each morning, Clare helped the children pull on layers, their mittens mismatched, their scarves made from what she’d stitched out of old flower sacks. They would trudge out with Jedodiah to scatter feed for the hens or shovel paths, little boots crunching over white.

 In the evenings they read by fire light while she mended and stirred the stew pot one more time and the town kept talking. She heard it on her rare trips into dry creek. She’d go alone. Walking beside the mule cart bonnet tied firm beneath her chin. At the merkantile, Mrs. Downing would peer over the counter with narrowed eyes. Four extra mouths.

 That ranch of yours must be growing food on prayer. Clara May just smiled and asked for more flour. At the post office, men would tip their hats, but not with respect. Their glances slid over her like oil, disbelieving, pitying, amused. She plays house like it’s real, one muttered when she passed. “She’s got them all calling her ma now.

” Another chuckled. “Fat thing probably just wants someone to love her.” She didn’t answer, didn’t blink, just handed her list to the shopkeeper and waited. Back at the ranch, though the children didn’t laugh at her, didn’t call her names. Ruthie had taken to sitting in her lap at night, clutching a scrap of cloth that Clare had made into a doll.

 Elijah helped split kindling and checked on the barn cats every morning without being told. Susanna no longer hid behind the stove. She ran, now ran to Clare with muddy hands and frostbit cheeks, squealing with joy over snowflakes that landed on her lashes. Micah the quiet one had started drawing.

 He scratched out little pictures on scraps of paper with charcoal. Once he handed her one folded small. It was a lopsided woman with round cheeks and a long braid holding four stick figure children in her arms. On the bottom he’d written in crooked print our ma. She kept that drawing in the pocket of her apron touching it with her fingers when the house was quiet.

 Then came the Sunday service. Jedadiah didn’t go, but Clareay felt the children needed it. They bathed the night before in water heated on the stove, and she brushed each head of hair with slow care. She wore her cleanest dress, brown and sturdy, and walked with all four of them lined up like ducks behind her. The church pews creaked under the weight of stairs.

 The preacher cleared his throat four times before beginning. But when it came time for songs, Ruthie stood up, tiny, 6 years old, with ribboned braids and a lisp that hadn’t quite faded yet. She sang, “Jesus loves me alone.” Soft at first, then louder as Clare nodded gently from the pew. The whole church was silent when she finished.

 A single amen broke the stillness from the old woman who kept to herself, eyes glassy. outside afterward. People didn’t laugh. They didn’t smile either, but they looked a little longer. Not at Clareay’s waistline, but at the children. One woman stopped her at the well. You take in all four. Yes. Not all yours, though. They are now.

 The woman nodded, then pressed something into her hand. A knitted pair of mittens too small for adult hands. Had extras. That evening, Jedodiah waited on the porch. “Watch them come up the trail. When Ruthie ran to him, he scooped her up. Boots and all. How was church?” he asked. They said, “I sing real good.” “I bet you did.” Clare came up slower, her steps tired, but her face calm.

 She sang like she meant it. He looked at her. “You did good.” That night, as the wind howled across the ridge and sleet tapped against the glass, the house didn’t feel cold at all. Inside, five people sat around the table. And when Clara May reached for the bread, her hand brushed Jidadia’s. He didn’t pull back.

 She didn’t either. No one mentioned it. But later, when she lit the lamp in the front room, she noticed something different. Beside the fireplace, four wooden pegs had been added to the wall, one for each child’s coat. They hadn’t been there yesterday. The wind that night came with warning. It snapped the barn door against its frame and moaned through the eaves like something grieving. Clare had trouble sleeping.

Not because of fear she’d lived through worse storms, but because of a feeling in her chest that something was about to come loose. She rose before first light, wrapped in her shawl, and stirred the fire back to life. The children still slept in the loft, bundled together under patchwork quilts.

 She cracked the door to the outside, just enough to smell the cold. It wasn’t snowing yet, but it would. By noon, the wind had turned sharp like needles on skin. Jediah was in the barn reinforcing the roof beams with Elijah and Micah helping haul lumber from the shed. Clare sent Ruthie and Susanna into the cabin to shell beans by the fire.

 She had just pulled the bread from the oven when she heard it a pop- like timber splitting, then a wump, sudden and terrible. The wind carried smoke, thick, wrong. She ran to the window and saw it orange behind the barn wall. Fire. She didn’t scream. She just moved out the door across the yard. Skirts clutched in both hands.

 Her boots caught mud and snow, but she didn’t slow. Jedadiah was already yelling for the boys, dragging Micah away from the sidewall. Elijah stumbled, coughing out into the wind, but the barn was too far gone on one side. Hay bales smoldered. Flames had caught along the upper loft, and Ruthie God. Ruthie had followed them.

 She stood at the threshold, tiny arms raised toward the horses inside. Ruthie Clare shouted, but the girl didn’t move. Frozen, Jedadiah lunged forward but slipped in the mud. Clare didn’t hesitate. She charged into the heat, skirts brushing flames, apron catching an ember that she slapped away with a burned palm.

 She reached the girl, scooped her up, shielded her face, and turned back just as part of the roof groaned above them. They made it out with seconds to spare. Outside, Elijah screamed when he saw his sister in Clare’s arms. Jedodiah caught her before she fell because her knees gave out right there in the dirt.

 He carried her into the house without a word, his arms around her as though she weighed nothing at all. She was wheezing by the time he set her on the bed, curls of smoke still clinging to her sleeves. Ruthie cried into her skirt. I told her not to go. Elijah sobbed. I told her it wasn’t your fault. Clare whispered, coughing. She was just scared. Jedodiah brought in a basin of water.

 Clare stripped off her outer layers, her arms red and blistering, but she made no sound, just pressed cool cloth to Ruthiey’s forehead, then to her own hands. Hours passed. The barn was mostly gone by nightfall. The mule had broken loose and fled. The hens scattered, but the children were safe. Later that night, as the wind died and only embers glowed in the firebox, Jedodiah sat beside her on the floor, her wrapped hands resting in her lap. “You ran into fire,” he said softly. “I didn’t think.

Just ran. She calls you Ma now. I know. You didn’t have to be the one to go.” She looked over at him. Her eyes were soft, rimmed red from smoke and tears. “No, but I’m the one she reached for. He didn’t speak for a long while. just watched the fire die low.

 When he stood, he left something behind a small carved figure shaped like a mother holding a child, rough and unpainted, but steady. She held it that night as she rocked Ruthie to sleep. And when she finally lay down, pain stinging in her arms, she pressed it to her chest. In town the next day, word had already spread how the fat bride ran into a burning barn.

how she came out with a child in her arms and her apron smoking. Some said it was foolish, some said it was heroic, but no one laughed. Not anymore. Mrs. Downing at the merkantile packed extra flour in her sack without charging. Someone left two fresh loaves of bread at the cart and at the church.

 Reverend Markham called her by name during prayer. At the cabin, Clare didn’t speak of the pain. She kept cooking, kept mending. And that night when Micah slipped a new drawing onto the table of a house, five stick figures and a flame with a heart drawn through it, she didn’t cry. She just touched the drawing and whispered, “We’re still standing. They were because of her.

” Spring came slow, dragging its feet through the thaw. The snow melted into the gullies first, leaving behind soft patches of green where none had grown all winter. The trees around the ranch creaked as their buds stirred open. The creek, once frozen and silent, now gurgled with runoff. Inside the cabin, the rhythms had changed. The children had chores now, and did them with purpose.

 Clare had drawn a little chart and nailed it near the stove, sweeping, feeding hens, hauling wood, folding linens. Not because she demanded it, but because they had asked to help. It was theirs now, too. Jediah repaired the barn with Elijah at his side. They hauled new beams from the forest, working late into dusk.

 The boy’s shoulders were still narrow, but his back had straightened. He no longer flinched at sudden sounds. Clara May watched them from the kitchen window as she needed dough. She’d let Ruthie punch it down the day before, and now the girl followed her everywhere, asking when it would rise again.

 Micah sat near the hearth, carving a new shape out of soft pine with a borrowed knife. Susanna hummed while stringing dried apples on twine, and for the first time, Clare allowed herself a smile that lasted. One afternoon, she found Jedadia working near the porch, hammering something against the wood. She walked closer, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s that?” He looked up, squinting. “Name board.

” He stepped aside above the front steps. He’d nailed a piece of sanded cedar. Four names were carved in uneven, careful letters. Elijah, Ruthie, Micah, Susanna. She reached out, running her fingers across the grooves. The children stood behind her, quiet, watching. Jetaiah handed her the knife. You should add yours. She didn’t move right away.

 Her hand trembled slightly, but not from pain. Then slowly she took the knife and knelt beside the board. Her name was harder to fit, but she carved it beneath the others. Steady as a heartbeat. Clara May. She left space beside it. That evening, the sun fell soft across the porch.

 They all sat together in the swing Jedodiah had repaired Clare in the middle. Susanna curled into her side, the boys tossing pebbles toward a tin can. Ruthie braiding clover stems. Jedodiah sat on the step below them, arms resting across his knees. “Why haven’t you carved yours yet?” Micah asked him. Jedodiah looked up at Clare, then at the children. His voice was low. I’ve been waiting to see if it was my place.

 Clare laid a hand gently on his shoulder. It’s your house, Jed. Always has been. He shook his head. It wasn’t a home until you named it. That night, when the others had gone to bed, Clare found the front door slightly a jar. She stepped outside, bare feet brushing the cool floorboards. The name board was still there, and now carved just beneath hers in strong, clean lines, Jed.

 She stood for a long time, hand on the doorframe as the wind moved gently over the hills. Days passed, and the little ranch grew more whole. Clare added hooks by the door, one for each child’s satchel. She found an old bell and hung it on a cord outside, not to call them in, but to let them know supper was ready. The place echoed now with more than footsteps.

 Laughter, singing, foot races between the barn and the well, she planted herbs in a window box and taught Ruthie the names sage, thyme, lavender. One afternoon, she pulled a blanket from the chest and sat on the porch. Micah’s drawing box beside her. He brought over a new sketch, this one of a cabin surrounded by trees, smoke curling up from the chimney.

In the yard, six stick figures stood in a line. “This is our family,” he said quietly. “Clare looked at it, eyes soft.” “Who’s the tall one with the big hands?” Micah grinned. “That’s P.” “I figured he ought to be in it now.” She held the drawing for a moment before folding it carefully and tucking it into her apron.

 Jedadia joined them later with a small carved bench he’d made just for the children. It was clumsy and rough but sturdy. “Got tired of y’all fighting over the step,” he said, setting it down. “That night before bed, Clare sat in her rocker as the children climbed into their bunks. Jediah lingered by the door. I thought you might leave after the fire, he said. She looked up amused.

 And go where I’ve never had a name carved into a porch before. He stepped closer. Quiet. You gave them a mother. She shook her head. They gave me something to mother. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “And me,” she smiled. “Then a soft thing, not sad, but rooted. You gave me a place to stay. In the hush that followed, there were no more questions, just the sound of a chair rocking, a fire crackling, and a man sitting beside a woman with burnt hands, both watching over a house that finally felt full. Clare didn’t wake up that morning. The fire had burned low overnight. Rain

tapped gently on the windows, the kind that made the soil rich and the cabin quiet. The children had risen early without fuss, as if they somehow knew. Susanna tugged on Micah’s shirt when the stew pot was still cold. Why didn’t Ma light the stove? He went to her door first. Knocked once, then again. Harder.

No answer. He pushed it open. She lay beneath her quilt, one hand resting over her chest, the other curled around a crumpled drawing, one of his. The one where they were all smiling outside the barn with names on the porch beam. He didn’t speak, just stared, the air suddenly too still.

 Jedodiah found him that way, standing in the doorway, not crying, just breathing short and fast like the air had turned sharp. He crossed the room slowly. She was warm, but still, her face soft, her lips parted slightly, as though she’d drifted into a thought and never come back. The photograph of the two little girls from her past lay tucked under her pillow.

 Jedadiah sat beside her, took her hand. It was rough, scarred, marked with the years, but his fingers folded over it gently. He stayed there while Micah fetched the others. No one spoke. Even Ruthie, who normally filled the room with questions, stood with her thumb pressed between her teeth, eyes wide.

 He buried her the next day on the hill behind the cabin under the twisted cottonwood that had just begun to bud. The town came. They came on foot, on wagons, in carriages, not out of spectacle, but out of shame, and something softer, too. Mrs. Downing brought fresh bread and three jars of jam. Reverend Markham walked the whole way from the church, holding his Bible tight.

 She was laid to rest in her apron, as she had asked quietly weeks before. Beside the garden, she never got to finish planting. Jedodiah built the coffin himself. Elijah helped carry it. Ruthie tucked the little cloth doll under the folded hands. Micah slipped in his last drawing. Susanna held Jedodiah’s hand the whole time. The preacher didn’t say much. He didn’t have to because the children did.

 Elijah stood tall and cleared his throat. She came when no one else did. She cooked for us, sat with us. She didn’t ask where we came from, just made room. Ruthie tugged on Jedodiah’s sleeve and whispered, “Can I tell the song?” He nodded. And there, under the wide Wyoming sky, the little girl sang, “Jesus loves me.” Soft and sure, her voice floating over the grave like something holy, the people cried.

 Not for her size, not for her oddness, but because they’d seen at last what love looked like in a woman who’d never asked for it, only gave it. That night, the cabin felt wrong without her steps, but Jedodiah lit the fire, and the children set the table. No one asked who’d cook.

 Elijah stirred the stew just as she had. Ruthie fetched her herbs. Before they ate, Jedodiah bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. The next morning, he carved one last name into the porchboard beneath hers. “No dates, no titles, just ma.” A week later, the children gathered stones from the creek and laid them in a circle around her grave.

 They planted seeds, maragold, sage, and lavender. By midsummer, green shoots broke through the soil. Bright orange and soft purple swayed together, tended by small hands, and every evening Jediah sat on the porch. The children around him telling stories she once told. They laughed sometimes, and when they did, it wasn’t cruel. It was warm, like stew.

 Like an old apron, like a home made from second chances. Clara May Jenkins came to Dry Creek last. No one wanted her, but she was the first to be called Ma and the only one they never forgot. Some women walk into a room and command attention. Others walk into a home and quietly change it forever. Clare never asked for praise.

 never demanded love. She simply gave. And in the end, the children didn’t remember what she looked like. They remembered how she made them feel. Have you ever known someone like her? Someone who gave more than they had and never asked for anything back. Tell me about them in the comments.

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