54. Clara
CLARA
EMPIRE
“You’re thinking too loud,” Maverick murmurs, his fingers gently combing through my hair. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”
We’ve been binge-watching an entire series for the last two days—something Maverick’s never done before, nor had the time for.
But I’ve been staring blankly at the TV screen for the last ten minutes, using his thigh as a pillow and listening to the familiar clash of swords and battle cries while my mind drifts elsewhere.
I shift slightly, turning to look up at him. “I keep thinking about calling Rosie.”
“The nurse from the hospital?”
“Yeah.” I bite my lower lip, that familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.
It’s been months since I was discharged from the hospital—since Rosie wrote her number on my discharge paperwork, telling me I looked like I needed someone.
“I just… what if it’s been to o long? I didn’t want to call her with everything going on, but now that it’s over… What if?—”
“Sunshine,” he interrupts gently, his thumb tracing circles along my temple. “She gave you her number for a reason. She wanted you to call.”
“I know, but…” I trail off, letting out a sigh. Rosie reminded me so much of my mom my heart ached, but it was also a balm to my grief. I miss having someone to call when something good happens—or when everything falls apart.
Maverick must see something in my expression because he leans forward slightly. “But what?”
“What if she asks me questions I don’t know how to answer? How do I know what I can tell her? I mean, do I share everything?”
“If you don’t know how to answer a question, you tell her that. As far as everything else, that’s up to you, sunshine. You’ve been in the news ever since the second press conference. She’s bound to have seen the news story. I don’t think she’s going to judge you for anything, Clara.”
I hum, considering this and rolling it around in my mind. He’s right—Rosie had been nothing but kind and patient with me during those awful days in the hospital. Still, the uncertainty gnaws at me.
“Maybe I should wait a little longer,” I say, even as I’m sitting up, disturbing Juno, who huffs and waits until I’m settled before he lies back down next to me.
“Or maybe you should just call her now, before you talk yourself out of it completely.”
I reach for my phone on the coffee table.
As soon as I grab it, Maverick’s hands find my hips and pull me toward him.
I let out a nervous laugh as I practically tumble onto his lap, then shift to get comfortable, swinging my legs over his so I’m curled against his side.
Juno follows suit, curling into my other side.
“Too far,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the side of my head, his arms wrapping securely around me. “Call her.”
My phone feels heavy in my hands as I scroll to Rosie’s contact. My finger hovers over her name, my heart beating faster with each passing second.
“I’m nervous,” I admit.
“I know,” he says softly. “But you’ve got this. And I’m right here.”
Juno huffs as though he’s in agreement, reminding me he’s right here, too.
Taking a deep breath, I hit the call button and bring the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice—and then Rosie’s warm voice fills the line.
“Hello?”
“Rosie?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended, but there’s no going back now.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come inside?” I twist in my seat, looking at Maverick’s handsome face.
Rosie was nothing short of ecstatic when I called, telling me how she had been hoping I’d call her one day. She tried insisting on driving up to Minneapolis to see me, but I managed to convince her to stay put—that I’d drive to Rochester instead.
The drive felt both endless and too short. Maverick’s hand rested on my thigh the entire way, anchoring me against the anticipation and nerves that threatened to overwhelm me.
Now we’re idling in her driveway, and I’m stalling.
“I’ll wait right here, sunshine,” he says, leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “Take as long as you need.”
“But—”
“Clara.” He stops me with a finger to my lips. “ Go. You need this.”
Before I can lose my nerve, I’m walking up the stone pathway to the modest ranch-style house, admiring the bamboo wind chimes hanging from her porch.
I raise my hand to knock, but I don’t even have the opportunity to hesitate because the front door opens, and there she is.
She looks just as I remember with her gray hair thrown in a bun on the top of her head, her deep brown eyes warm and kind.
“Oh, my darling girl,” Rosie breathes. Suddenly I’m enveloped in arms that smell like jasmine and home cooking—her embrace feels like the safest place in the world.
“Hi, Rosie,” I manage, my voice thick with emotion.
“Come, come inside,” she says, pulling back to look at me with tears in her eyes. “Let me see you properly.”
She guides me past her living room, which feels warm and inviting, filled with family photos, and into the kitchen.
The rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes permeate the space, reminding me of growing up, of cooking with my mom.
It makes my heart squeeze with longing, and I inhale deeply to keep the tears at bay.
“Sit, sit!” Rosie gestures to the kitchen table before checking on the food. “I made chicken afritada—you look too skinny. Don’t worry, I’ll feed you, anak ko .”
I laugh despite my nerves and wipe away the tears at the easy way Rosie called me her child.
Blinking back the moisture, I take in the kitchen and soak in its warmth.
It’s full of life and everything that is Rosie.
My gaze lingers on the rice cooker steaming on the counter, a bowl of ripe mangoes and tropical fruit on the island, and a bamboo broom tucked in the corner—it’s so familiar that my chest aches with memories.
Clearing my throat, I move around the table and stand against the kitchen island. “What can I do to help, Rosie?”
“Call me Mama, darling,” she answers without looking at me, her voice so sure and warm.
At my stunned silence, Rosie turns away from the stock pot, her small hands on her hips.
“You’re Filipina—I see it in your eyes, the way you move your hands when you talk—I can always tell.
And you have the Filipino nose.” She nods as she speaks, her accent thicker than it was at the hospital.
She’s at home—she’s comfortable, she’s herself.
“We call everyone auntie and uncle, you know—everyone family. And you don’t need to be blood to be family, my darling. ”
As I take in everything she’s saying, the dam breaks and the tears flow freely. My shoulders shake, the sobs coming from somewhere deep—a place I’ve locked away since I convinced myself my mom died.
Through my tears, I look at Rosie’s kind face and finally understand why she felt so familiar from the moment we met.
She reminds me of my mom, and it hurts, but it’s more than that.
She doesn’t hesitate to take me in, to call me family, to be my family—there are no conditions, no judgment, just love.
Rosie clucks her tongue and walks over to me, drawing me into the kind of hug a mother gives her daughter. “I don’t need to have pushed you out of my vagina to consider you my daughter—to be your mama, you know, anak ko. ”
I lean into her, unable to hold back the cackle that erupts from my throat. “Oh my god, you didn’t just say that!”
“I did, darling,” she says matter-of-factly, though her brown eyes are twinkling with mischief.
She pulls back but leaves her hands on my arms. “It’s true.
Now, you help me by telling that handsome man from the hospital to come inside.
Why he waiting out there? Tell him come eat.
I cooked too much. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my daughter, and he’s my son-in-law,” she pauses, then shrugs, “well, almost.”
“Thank you… Mama.” It feels odd—comforting but odd—to call Rosie Mama.
It doesn’t matter that she and I don’t know each other well yet.
This is how we are—Filipinos. We take in new family all the time.
It’s been so long since I’ve been around my own family that I’d forgotten about it.
But Rosie’s right. Growing up, I’d call my mom’s friends auntie or uncle —that’s how they were introduced to me. It’s just what we did.
But Rosie isn’t Auntie Rosie. She’s Mama, and there’s no suppressing the smile on my face.
“Thank me by bringing in your handsome man and eating my food,” she replies, essentially pushing me toward the door. “Go, go.”
Shaking my head, I hustle to the front door and open it just enough to draw Maverick’s attention. I wave him inside, the smile on my face so wide it hurts.
He exits the SUV and strides toward me. “What is it, sunshine?”
Once he’s within touching distance, I reach for his hand and pull him inside, interlacing our fingers. “She said you have to come eat.”
“Oh. Well, that I can do. Lead the way,” he says, brushing his lips across my forehead.
We sit with Rosie—Mama—for three hours, though it feels like a handful of minutes.
She tells us about her family: how her husband passed away a decade ago, how they’d always wanted a big family but couldn’t have one of their own, so she loved on her nieces and nephews instead.
All twenty of them. When I tell her about my family and how I had to walk away from them, she takes my hands and holds my gaze.
“Ay, anak ko ,” Rosie whispers, shaking her head sadly. “Parents who choose judgment over love… They forget what family really means. Your mama may have forgotten how to love you properly, but I won’t.”
When it’s time to leave and she insists on packing enough food for a week, I don’t protest. When she makes me promise to call every Sunday, I don’t hesitate. When she hugs Maverick goodbye and whispers something in his ear that makes him blush, I don’t ask questions.
Later, as we’re driving back to Minneapolis, Maverick’s hand finds mine. “You’re glowing,” he says softly. “You look happy, sunshine.”
“I am.” I bring his hand to my lips and press a kiss to his knuckles. “I am happy, my love.”
My heart is full, and I feel… whole. Not because the pain of losing my birth family is gone, but because I’ve found that family isn’t just blood—it’s choice.