Clara found her place among children.
The kindergarten classroom was small and bright, filled with uneven drawings taped to the walls and chairs too short for adult legs. She fit there effortlessly—kneeling beside crying children, listening patiently to stories that wandered without direction, laughing freely at jokes that made sense only to five-year-olds.
Parents noticed quickly.
"My son never wants to skip school anymore."
"She remembers every child's favorite thing."
"My daughter talks about you at home like you're family."
Clara accepted their words with gentle smiles, still surprised by how natural happiness felt when it was no longer earned through exhaustion.
She dressed simply—soft colors, comfortable dresses—but there was a quiet elegance in how she carried herself now. Her posture was straight. Her movements calm. Her presence warm.
Children adored her.
Parents trusted her.
And she loved the work.
⸻
At home, the house had changed.
Laughter lived there now.
Nurma talked endlessly—about her day, about dreams that made no sense, about stories Clara patiently helped her finish. Grandma Tika listened with softened eyes, often smiling without realizing it.
In the evenings, they sat together, sharing tea, trading stories from different generations.
"This house used to be too quiet," Grandma Tika said one night. "Now it feels alive."
Clara smiled. "I'm glad."
When Zayd called, he often heard it—the sound of voices overlapping, laughter echoing softly in the background.
"You sound busy," he said once.
"We're together," Clara replied. "Nurma's telling a story."
He listened quietly as Nurma took the phone, proudly explaining a drawing she had made.
"You take care of them," Zayd said afterward.
Clara smiled at the screen. "They take care of me too."
Her warmth traveled across distance.
And Zayd felt it—more deeply than he admitted.
⸻
Bastian returned without warning.
Clara recognized his voice before she saw him.
"Clara."
She turned slowly.
He stood near the kindergarten gate, dressed neatly, confidence worn carefully, as if trying to remind her of who he used to be.
"I work nearby now," he said quickly. "I didn't know you taught here."
"That's fine," Clara replied evenly.
"I heard you're married."
"Yes."
The word no longer felt strange.
"People say it's... not exactly a love marriage," Bastian continued carefully. "They say you don't even live together."
Clara's gaze sharpened. "People talk too much."
"They say he's never around," Bastian pressed. "That you're alone."
She stepped back slightly. "I'm not."
"But you could be happier," he said. "With someone who's actually here."
She met his eyes calmly. "I am happy."
The truth unsettled him.
⸻
He didn't stop trying.
Flowers appeared—too large, too dramatic. Coffee delivered with apologies wrapped inside. Messages filled with regret and promises.
"You married without love," he said once, standing too close. "Is that really the life you want?"
"I married into peace," Clara replied.
"Peace isn't love."
"No," she agreed. "But love without respect is worse."
She walked away, leaving him standing alone with words that no longer worked.
⸻
Zayd planned the gift quietly.
Clara's birthday approached, and though he wouldn't be home, he wanted her to know he remembered. He asked his trusted friend, Captain Mike, to deliver it personally.
"Just a small thing," Zayd said. "Nothing complicated."
Mike arrived at the kindergarten during dismissal.
That was when he saw it.
A man stood near the gate holding an extravagant bouquet—too bold to be innocent. Clara stood a short distance away, her expression composed but firm.
She didn't touch the flowers.
She didn't smile.
But the man leaned in too close.
Mike watched carefully.
Then he took a photo.
⸻
The message reached Zayd that night.
She liked the gift.
But there's something you should see.
The image loaded slowly.
Clara.
Flowers.
Another man.
Zayd's chest tightened.
"Who is he?" Zayd demanded when he called immediately.
"Her ex," Mike replied. "He's persistent."
"Does she encourage it?"
"No," Mike said honestly. "But she's alone most of the time."
The words struck deeper than accusation.
Alone.
Zayd ended the call without another word.
⸻
When Clara answered his call later, her voice was warm, familiar.
"Did you eat today?" she asked.
"Yes," he replied stiffly.
A pause.
"Is something wrong?" she asked gently.
"Who is he?" Zayd asked.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"The man with the flowers."
Silence stretched.
"He's from my past," Clara said calmly. "I didn't accept them."
"But you let him stand there."
"I don't control other people's choices," she replied quietly.
Zayd exhaled sharply, frustration and something unfamiliar burning beneath his restraint.
"You're my wife," he said.
"I know."
"Then don't let him think he has a place."
Clara's voice softened—but it carried weight. "He doesn't."
The line went quiet.
For the first time since their marriage, warmth failed to bridge the distance.
⸻
Zayd stared at the dark screen long after the call ended.
Jealousy was not part of his training.
It was messy. Irrational. Unwelcome.
He had married without love.
Left without hesitation.
Believed distance would keep emotions orderly.
Instead, distance had given them space to grow.
And somewhere far away, the woman he had never planned to need—
Was becoming someone other men could not ignore.