They clung to each other in the doorway, as though holding on was the only way to survive. Before they could move inside, headlights swept across the drive. A car door slammed, then another. Clara stiffened, bracing herself, but when her parents appeared at the gate, fresh grief surged through her chest.
“Sweetheart,” her mother said softly, hurrying up the path. Her father followed, his face drawn and pale. Clara shook her head, shame flooding her. “I couldn’t stay. I—I had to leave.” Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and warm. “So did we,” he admitted. “We walked out not long after you. We couldn’t stand to watch what was happening there. It wasn’t right.”