Chapter 122: Clara Took a Bite of the Strawberry

Clara took a bite of the strawberry, its juice bursting between her lips. She squinted slightly, her lips curling into an unconscious smile. "So sweet."

Helen watched her daughter's content expression, her heart stirring. She reached out and grasped Clara's slender wrist, her thumb gently brushing over the prominent bone. "Why have you gotten so thin?"

"I'm not thin," Clara protested with puffed cheeks, popping another strawberry into her mouth. "I actually gained two pounds last week."

She deliberately pinched her own cheek, the soft flesh spilling between her fingers. "See? Plenty of meat here."

"I was just wondering if I should go on a diet—"

Daniel immediately set down his newspaper, his brow furrowing. "Nonsense! Girls these days are always talking about losing weight."

He recalled the neighbor's daughter who had been hospitalized from extreme dieting, his tone turning stern. "Skinny as a twig, blown over by the slightest breeze—what's attractive about that?"

Clara stuck out her tongue playfully and leaned into Helen's embrace. "I was just joking."

Helen flicked her forehead lightly. "Don't even think about it. If you come back skinnier next time, you'll see what happens."

"Got it, Mom." Clara nuzzled against her mother's shoulder.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of wood in the fireplace. Helen combed her fingers through her daughter's long hair before finally asking softly, "These past years... have you been okay?"

Clara's fingers stilled, the strawberry juice staining her nails red. "I've been fine," she murmured, staring at her fingers. "It's all in the past now."

"What about... him?" Helen asked cautiously. "He didn't come back with you?"

The air suddenly grew heavy.

Clara lifted her gaze, her voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "We broke up a long time ago."

The argument from six years ago flashed before her eyes—her father walking away with his cane, her mother's tear-filled gaze, and herself stubbornly rooted in place, watching them disappear into the distance.

She had expected reproach, but instead, her father simply added another log to the fire.

"An unsuitable match is better ended early," Daniel said, his voice blending with the crackling flames, unexpectedly gentle.

Clara suddenly felt her eyes grow hot.

* * *

On New Year's Clara morning, Clara was still deep in sleep when her door was pounded loudly.

"Weren't we supposed to go shopping for the holiday?" Helen stood at the doorway, torn between exasperation and amusement at the sight of her daughter's disheveled hair and crooked pajamas. "The sun's already up."

Clara squinted at her phone. "It's only seven..."

"The fresh fish at the market will be sold out by now!" Helen pushed her straight into the bathroom. "Hurry up and wash. Your father made pork rib congee."

Ten minutes later, Clara came downstairs with her hair in a ponytail, but her father was nowhere to be seen in the dining room.

"Where's Dad?"

"Something came up at school." Helen ladled a bowl of congee for her. "The principal called early this morning."

Just then, the phone rang abruptly. Helen stepped into the courtyard to answer, her voice suddenly rising. "How could they make such an arrangement?"

Clara froze mid-bite of her fried dough stick—she had never heard her mother sound so agitated and hurt before.