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.

He cried terribly, like a man whose entire worldview, which he used as an excuse throughout his life, suddenly collapses.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

I looked at him without answering.

Not because I didn’t entirely believe him, but because that phrase was insufficient in the face of the grave of two babies.

Not knowing was no longer enough.

Not after years of choosing not to look.

“I didn’t know,” she repeated, “but I should have known. Clara, I… I let her do this to you. I let her do so many things.”

That was more true.