Clara had learned sign language for her. Slowly. Awkwardly. Patiently. She brought her tea, showed her songs on her phone, asked for her opinion even when Mireille sighed:
“It’s no use, poor thing. She doesn’t understand everything.”
That Saturday, Antoine announced the departure as if it were a done deal.
“We’re going to Majorca for a week. Mom, Dad, Élodie, and me.”
Clara waited for his name. It didn’t come.
“And me?” she asked.
Mireille smiled.
“You’re staying here with Maëlle. That’s what family is.”
Antoine added, without even looking at her:
“Don’t play the victim. She needs constant supervision.”
Before leaving, Mireille approached Clara, so close that her perfume made her feel nauseous.
“If anything happens, we’ll tell the truth: you weren’t capable.”
The door slammed. The house fell silent.
Clara went up to Maëlle’s room. The young woman was lying motionless, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. Clara approached gently.
“Maëlle? They’re gone.”
Then Maëlle sat up.
Not weakly. Not like she was ill.
