By thirty-five, Clara Bennett had lost almost everything.
Her husband, Miguel, had died four months earlier from a heart attack so sudden it didn’t even feel real at first. One minute he was lacing his work boots in the dark, heading out before sunrise like he always did. The next, Clara was sitting in a hospital chair with numb hands, hearing a doctor speak in that slow, careful voice people use when they know your life is about to split in two.
After that, things unraveled fast.
The room they rented in a tired little town outside Albuquerque had only ever worked because Miguel kept working. Without him, rent became impossible. The neighbors still offered sympathy, but sympathy has a shelf life. Clara saw it in their faces. Heard it in the way people started saying, “I wish I could help,” instead of actually helping.
She was five months pregnant. No savings worth naming. No parents to call. No brothers. No safety net. Just a few thousand dollars she and Miguel had scraped together over years for emergencies, the baby, and whatever life might throw at them.
