10/08/2025
A widow was hired to cook for seven children and their father… From being scorned, she became their mother…
Clara Webaer didn't intend to stay long; she only came for work. To cook, clean, and earn a living in a house where a widowed man was raising six daughters on his own. But as soon as she stepped out of the wagon and touched the ground with her sturdy boots, she knew this place wouldn't be like the ones before.
The first face she saw was that of a little girl, Eliza, timidly peering at her from behind a porch post. She had a berry stain on her chin and eyes so large they didn't seem to fit on her face. Clara raised her hand in greeting, but the little girl disappeared as if the wind had blown her back.
Behind her came the slow sound of footsteps. A tall man appeared from the porch, broader than anyone Clara had met since becoming a widow. His hat was awry, and his eyes lowered, fixed on the bag she'd left at his feet. "My name is Clara Weaber," she said in a voice that sought to assert itself. "I've been a widow for two years.
I cook cleanly and I don't tolerate laziness or insolence." "You said six girls. I brought extra flour." He looked up for a moment, and though he didn't say anything, there was more to his expression than simple courtesy. It was as if he recognized her not as a face, but as the kind of woman who survives everything, patched up inside, but still standing.
Matthew Langley said finally, his voice raspy like old wood. "The house is over there." He pointed to a wooden dwelling with a slightly sagging porch. Clara just nodded. She didn't ask where her room was. She grabbed her bag and walked straight inside. Inside, the air smelled of dry milk and burnt bread. The walls spoke of difficult years.
A table scratched with spoons and elbows, school blackboards in the corners, and a crooked row of small boots lined up by the door. "I'm going to make dinner," Clara said unprompted. "Don't bother," a firm voice replied from the stairs. It was the oldest, Beceni.
Ten years old, her arms crossed, and the look of someone who has already learned not to trust adults. "We're not hungry." Clara didn't reply, just dropped her bag, rolled up her sleeves, and went down to the basement to get whatever she needed. By nightfall, the house smelled different. Warm stew with herbs, freshly baked bread, and wild honey poured into teacups for the girls who didn't ask for anything, but drank it anyway. "The story continues on the blue line below."
To be continued in the comments.
