Especially over her own daughter.
“I should leave,” Elena whispered now.
Her voice sounded fragile enough to disappear entirely.
Michael looked toward her immediately.
“You can barely stand.”
“I said I should leave.”
“No,” Daniel said softly. “You need rest.”
Clara stared at the three of them.
Her family.
Arranged around the woman she had spent nearly a decade erasing from her life.
Something ugly unfurled inside her chest.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly anger.
Displacement.
Like she had walked into a version of her own home where someone else had slowly taken her place.
“How sick is she?” Clara asked flatly.
Nobody answered again.
That silence terrified her more than anything yet.
Clara looked at the medications on the table.
At the bruised skin visible beneath her mother’s sleeve.
At the hollowness around her eyes.
And suddenly she understood.
“Oh my God.”
Michael stepped toward her.
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