Today, around 11 a.m., Clara returned home after a 4-month work trip.

The bell rang once. Twice. Solomiyka was crying against my chest, her jaw rigid and her eyes filled with a confusion no four-year-old should ever know. My father took a step toward me and lowered his voice, that heavy voice that had always made everyone in the house obey.
—Hang up, Oksana. Now.
I didn't hang up.
The person on the other end answered, and I said only three things: the exact time, the sound of the knock, and that my daughter needed medical help. Then my sister Iryna turned strangely pale. Not scared for Tanya. Not worried about Solomiyka. Pale like someone who recognizes a door they've been trying to keep closed for years.