Chapter 12 Hope is a Dangerous Thing
Clara did not tell her parents immediately.
She carried the news home like something fragile, something glass-thin that could shatter if handled too quickly. The evening passed in a blur, her mother moving around the kitchen, her father flipping through channels without really watching, the familiar rhythm of their home pressing in on her chest.
Hope had it weight.
It sat heavy inside her, warm and terrifying all at once.
She lay on her bed later, staring at the ceiling, Peter’s words replaying in her mind. I talked to my parents.
They said they’d help.
Every time she thought about it, her heart surged and then immediately pulled back, afraid of how high it had climbed.
Clara had lived long enough with uncertainty to know better than to trust joy without question.
Still… she smiled into her pillow.
The next morning came too quickly.
She joined her parents at the breakfast table, her appetite small but present. Her mother noticed immediately she always did.
“You’re quiet,” her mother said gently, sliding a plate toward her. “Everything okay?”
Clara nodded, then shook her head, then sighed.
“I need to talk to you,” she said.
Her father set his mug down. “That sounds serious.”
“It is,” Clara replied, then paused. Her hands trembled slightly, and she curled them into fists beneath the table. “But… It's also kind of good. I think.”
Her mother leaned forward. “Clara.”
She took a breath. Then another.
“I got a response from the author.”
Both of her parents froze.
“The author?” her father repeated carefully.
“Yes,” Clara said. “The one from the book. He emailed me back.”
Her father's’s eyes widened. “He did?”
Clara nodded, I had told mom briefly about it, unable to stop the small, disbelieving smile that crept onto her face. “He said he can’t answer my questions in writing. That he doesn’t trust readers enough for that. But… if I ever find myself in Amsterdam, I can visit him.”
Silence settled over the table.
Her father leaned back slowly, the weight of the words sinking in. Her mother had told her the weight of the news, expression softened, but Clara saw the hesitation behind it.
“And?” her mother asked quietly.
“And Peter talked to his parents,” Clara continued, voice trembling now. “They said they might be able to help with the trip.”
The air changed.
Her father straightened. “Help how?”
“With… some of the expenses,” Clara said. “They want to support it. They want to support me, I mean us as Peter would love to go along”
Her mother exhaled sharply, one hand rising to her chest. “Clara…”
“I know,” Clara said quickly. “I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s complicated. And I know my health…”
“That’s exactly it,” her father interrupted gently. “Your health.”
Clara swallowed.
“This isn’t just about money,” he continued. “It’s about your lungs. The travel. The strain. The risks.”
“I know,” she said. “I do. But this isn’t just a trip for me. It’s… it’s something I’ve been carrying for years.”
Her mother reached across the table and took her hand.
“You’ve carried so much already,” she said softly.
Tears burned behind Clara’s eyes. “I’m not asking for permission,” she whispered. “I’m just asking you to hear me.”
They did.
They listened as she spoke about the book, the unanswered ending, the way it felt like a loose thread tied to her own life. About Peter, too, and how he never made her feel fragile or broken, how he believed in things she’d trained herself not to.
When she finished, the kitchen was quiet.
Her father rubbed his temples. Her mother stared down at their joined hands.
“We need time,” her mother finally said.
Clara nodded. She had expected that.
“I’m not saying no,” her mother added quickly. “But I can’t say yes yet either, we need to talk to your doctors about it and see if they would approve.”
Hope flickered, unsteady, but alive.
That afternoon, Clara went to the hospital for a routine check-in. The halls were familiar, the antiseptic smell grounding. She moved through the motions, blood pressure, oxygen levels, polite smiles she’d perfected over years of practice.
But her thoughts were elsewhere.
Peter.
She wondered if he was waiting. If he was replaying their conversation the same way she was. If he was afraid he’d done too much or not enough.
By the time she left the hospital, the sky had shifted into soft evening hues. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Peter:
Did you talk to them?
She stared at the screen for a long moment before replying.
Clara:
Yes. It’s… complicated.
Her response came almost immediately.
Peter:
Do you want to talk?
She smiled.
Always, she typed but erased it.
Clara:
Can we walk?
He was already there when she arrived, standing under the fading light, hands shoved into his jacket pockets the same way he always did when he was nervous.
“How did it go?” he asked softly.
She shrugged. “They didn’t say no.”
“That’s good,” he said.
“They didn’t say yes either, they're just concerned about my health.”
He nodded, not disappointed, just understanding. “That’s fair.”
They walked in silence for a while, their shoulders brushing occasionally. Each touch sent a quiet thrill through her.
“I’m scared,” Clara admitted eventually.
“Me too,” Peter said.
She glanced at him. “Really?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Because if this works… everything changes. And if it doesn’t…”
He didn’t finish.
She didn’t need him to.
They stopped near the edge of the park, the world stretching wide and uncertain around them.
“Hope is dangerous,” Clara said quietly.
Peter looked at her then, really looked at her.
“ And so is not hoping,” he replied.
Her heart ached at the truth of it.
She reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
Instead, he laced his fingers with hers, grounding her, anchoring her to the moment.
For the first time in a long while, Clara allowed herself to imagine a future that extended beyond tomorrow.
And that terrified her more than anything.