My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

“This is madness! They’re all crazy!” she shouted.

My father-in-law finally spoke, but not to defend me, nor to protect Emma.

The only thing he could say was his wife’s last name, as if trying to wake her from a nightmare that was no longer private.

I took a step forward, touched my wet forehead, and saw blood on my fingers.

The sight of that red brought me such a cold clarity that it almost stabilized me.