Chapter 20 #2
Clara smiled.
“Do you think we become adults when we start buying houses with shutters that need repairing?”
“I think we mostly just become poor.”
She burst out laughing.
They spent the weekend cleaning, organizing, and imagining what they could do with the garden. They talked about planting trees, putting in a small patio, and maybe even a vegetable garden. None of it was extraordinary. And yet Clara felt deeply happy.
One evening, sitting outside the house, they watched the sun disappear behind the trees.
“You know what surprises me?” Clara asked.
“What?”
“I never imagined my life would be like this.”
“Me neither.”
“When I was younger, I thought everything had to be spectacular.”
“And now?”
“Now, I think it’s beautiful.”
Thomas took her hand.
“Me too.”
Time moved on. Clara finished her third novel the following year.
Her publisher was pleased with it. She began to understand that writing would be a lasting part of her life, but not her whole life.
She kept some days free. She continued to travel.
She turned down certain interviews. She spent time with Thomas.
And most importantly, she no longer felt guilty about making choices.
One evening, after sending the final manuscript of her third novel, Clara closed her computer. Thomas was in the kitchen.
“It’s finished.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“What are you going to do now?”
Clara stood up.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
She went to join him.
“And tomorrow?”
“Nothing then either.”
“And the day after?”
“We’ll see.”
Thomas smiled.
“I think you’re finally being reasonable.”
“Don’t push it.”
They laughed.
Later, they went out into the garden of their country house. The sky was full of stars and the night perfectly calm. Clara lay down in the grass.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think we might never have met?”
“Of course.”
“Does that scare you?”
He thought about it.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because what matters is that we did.”
Clara smiled. She thought about all the possible versions of her life.
Some would have been simpler. Others more complicated.
Some would have been more predictable. Others probably very different.
But none of them belonged to her anymore.
The one she had was right there, in front of her.
It hadn’t been built on a single decision.
It had grown from a multitude of choices—some good, others bad, some courageous, others driven by fear.
What mattered, in the end, wasn’t always choosing correctly. It was learning how to choose.
Thomas lay down beside her.
“What are you thinking about?”
“My first novel.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel like it was already about all of this.”
“About what?”
“About how we sometimes spend years looking for someone to love us when we should start by learning not to run from ourselves.”
Thomas turned his head toward her.
“And have you learned?”
Clara smiled.
“I’m still trying.”
“That’s good enough.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
“Do you know what I’d like?”
“What?”
“For our story to stay like this.”
“Like what?”
“Not perfect.”
Thomas smiled.
“I can guarantee that.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They fell silent. The night was soft. Clara closed her eyes.
She thought back to the woman she had been—her fears, her mistakes, her dreams she’d never dared to articulate clearly.
She didn’t regret that former version of herself.
She understood her better now. She knew she had done the best she could with what she knew at the time.
She didn’t want to erase her past. She simply wanted to keep moving forward.
A few weeks later, Clara finished the final corrections on her third novel. Her publisher asked if she wanted to organize a big event to celebrate the book’s release.
This time, she answered differently.
“Yes, but I don’t want it to be just about the book.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to talk about the journey. The changes. How we can start over again and again.”
Her publisher agreed. The event took place at a large bookstore a few days after publication.
At the end, a reader asked her a question.
“If you could give advice to the woman you were ten years ago, what would you tell her?”
Clara was quiet for a few seconds. Then she smiled.
“I'd tell her not to be ashamed of her contradictions. Not to think she has to choose between being strong and being afraid. And above all, I'd tell her she has the right to change her mind.”
The room remained silent.
“Because changing your mind isn't failing. Sometimes it's finally understanding what you really want.”
When Clara left the bookstore, Thomas was waiting outside.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Were you good?”
“I think so.”
“Want to celebrate?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
She took his arm.
“Home.”
“Our apartment or the country house?”
Clara thought it over.
“The country house.”
“Why?”
She smiled.
“Because tomorrow, I have nothing to do.”
They hit the road. In the car, Clara watched the landscape roll by.
She didn't know exactly what the future held for them.
They would grow old together, keep changing, probably face more hard times and more happiness.
Maybe her books would continue to find their audience.
Maybe one day she'd stop writing. Maybe Thomas would change careers again.
Maybe they'd travel more, or maybe they'd spend more time at their country house.
She no longer needed to know all the answers.
When they arrived, they opened the windows to let in the evening air. Clara went up to her study and looked at the notebook on the table. It held the first notes for her next novel. She smiled. She wouldn't open it tonight. She had something else to do. To live.
She went back downstairs to join Thomas.
“Coming?”
“Where?”
“Nowhere.”
“Perfect.”
They went out into the garden. The sun was setting slowly behind the trees. Clara took Thomas's hand.
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I think this is my favorite story.”
“Which one?”
She looked at their house, the garden, then at the man standing before her.
“Ours.”
Thomas kissed her forehead. They walked together toward the terrace.
Clara knew this wasn't the end of their life, only the end of a chapter.
Yet for the first time, the word “end” didn't frighten her.
Because she'd come to understand that an ending wasn't necessarily a loss.
Sometimes it was simply a story's way of reminding us that another could begin.
And this time, Clara was ready to write it herself.