“You think your father will forgive you?” Victor said, his voice turning cruel. “After what you did, you have no house, no money, no husband, and no dignity.”
I took one painful step forward.
“Enough.”
Victor looked at me with disgust. “You’re still defending her?”
I looked at Clara, standing in her wedding dress, surrounded by flowers and shame.
“I am not defending what she did,” I said. “I am defending what is left of her.”
Clara covered her mouth and began to cry.
Not the kind of cry meant to soften a room. The kind that comes when the soul finally sees itself without excuses.
Security escorted Victor out after Ruth told him the police were on their way.
Clara turned to me.
“Dad,” she whispered, “can you take me home?”
The question nearly broke me.
Home was the thing she had tried to sell.
“Not today,” I said softly. “But maybe one day, when you understand what home means.”
