It doesn’t come from the outside.
Not a lawsuit.
Not a petition.
Not a donor.
Not a headline.
It comes from inside the house.
And that’s what makes it worse.
It’s late.
Not dramatic-late.
Just past midnight.
Eleanor finally asleep.
Marcus reading in the living room.
I’m in the kitchen, rinsing a wine glass I didn’t finish.
The house feels normal.
Calm.
Steady.
The kind of night we once would have prayed for.
And then—
The crash.
Upstairs.
Glass shattering.
Something heavy hitting the floor.
Marcus is on his feet before I am.
“Zara,” he calls.
No answer.
We take the stairs two at a time.
Her bedroom door is open.
The mirror is shattered.
Her desk lamp on the floor.
And Zara is standing in the middle of it.
Breathing too fast.
Hands clenched.
Her phone cracked
