Richard leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Seraphina, you didn’t create the scene.

You asked for help.”

The words were simple, but something inside me loosened.

Maybe because nobody in my parents’ house had ever said it that way.

Need was always treated like failure.

Pain was treated like drama.

Asking for help meant you had mismanaged your life.

“I called them because I didn’t know what else to do,” I said, my voice shaking.

“I know.”

“I thought maybe because it was Noah…” My throat closed around his name.

Aunt Beatrice came nearer.

“Honey, they should have come because it was you.”

The softness in her voice broke something I had been trying hard to hold together.