Her mother's eyes. Her father's jaw.

Richard fell to his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Richard watched from the porch as she struck a match.

"We were protecting you," he whispered. "From the world. From men who would hurt you. We thought... if we kept you close, kept you pure, we could keep the family together forever."

The first entry was dated forty years ago: "I am fifteen. He is seventeen. They call us abomination. But when he touches my hand, the world stops. We have decided: we will leave. We will invent new names. We will have a daughter and name her Elena, after the saint of impossible journeys." Page after page detailed their escape, their marriage, the birth of Elena. Then, darker entries: "Sometimes I look at Richard and see only my cousin. The thrill is gone. Now there is only shame. I drink to forget. I cry in the shower. Our daughter is beautiful—too beautiful. She has his eyes. And lately, when she hugs me, I feel a warmth I shouldn't. God forgive me, but I see in her what I once saw in him. A pure love that has nowhere to go." Elena slammed the diary shut. Her mother had felt that for her? Not just maternal love, but something twisted by isolation and guilt?