I looked at the two of them.

The sunlight from the window caught the dust motes dancing between us.

Beyond the glass, the flat Texas landscape stretched out, hot and unforgiving.

“Forgiveness isn’t a switch you can just flip,” I said calmly.

“We know,” my mother said, wiping her cheeks. “But we want to try.”

“It is going to take time,” I said. “A lot of time.”

I looked my father in the eyes, ensuring he felt the weight of my gaze.

“And it will require accountability,” I added. “You have to acknowledge what you did, not just because Andrew got caught, but because it was wrong from the start.”

“We will,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”

From the leather chair, Claire let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

Her mascara was ruined, black streaks running down her pale cheeks.

“Accountability?” Claire spat, looking up at us. “Are you kidding me?”

She stood up, her expensive heels clicking weakly on the floor.

“You are going to stand there and lecture them while my husband is being dragged off in handcuffs?” she demanded.