She had spent three months on it. Not three months of daily work, but three months of stolen minutes—while dinner burned on the stove, while her toddler napped, while her husband scrolled through his phone in the next room. She had kneaded, pinched, and smoothed the clay until it felt like an extension of her own skin.
Carla smiled.
Her husband, Mark, leaned against the doorframe. “You’re still messing with that thing?” carla piece of art