I look at the two people who should be standing with me. One is my mother. One is my husband. They are not beside me. They are turned toward another woman, holding their bodies like shields around her and asking me to be the one who bows my head.
Grace's palm print still burns on my cheek. Jacob's shadow still cuts across the bed. Camila stands behind both of them with wide eyes and a soft mouth, the way she always does when the room needs a saint.
“Apologize," Grace says. Her voice is tight, like a string pulled too far. “You frightened her. You pushed her. She's just come home and all you do is make a scene."
I keep my gaze level. The monitor ticks behind me. The tape tugs at my skin. I am tired and sore, but the tiredness is clean; it is mine. Their words feel like a film laid over w
