My Parents Kept Calling My Eight-year-old Daughter The Cousin’s Slave While Her Cousin Got Celebrated At Their Anniversary. They Announced That Cousin Would Inherit Everything, The House, And The $280,000 Family Trust Fund. When I Tried To Object, My Father Grabbed Me By The Collar And Slammed Me Against The Wall. Shut Your Mouth. My Mother Poured Hot Soup On My Lap. Know Your Place. Sister Twisted My Daughter’s Ear. Slaves Don’t Get Inheritances. Uncle Threw Cake At Her Face. This Is All You Deserve. I Didn’t Cry. Instead…
The house smelled like money and denial. Expensive perfume layered over cheap cruelty. Laughter echoing down the hallway like the sound of teeth breaking. Every light was on, every curtain drawn wide, as if my parents wanted the whole neighborhood to witness how perfectly put together their family was. But I knew better. I’d always known better.
My name is Nicole, and if you asked anyone in that room that night, they’d probably tell you I’m the difficult daughter. The one who never fit the mold. The one who ruined things just by showing up. But the truth is, I’d been waiting three years for that party. I knew how it would end long before the first toast. I just didn’t know how far they’d go—or how far I’d let them go.
The anniversary was supposed to be a “celebration of legacy.” My mother said that phrase so many times it lost meaning. She’d been planning it for months—eight, to be exact. Caterers, florists, photographers, even a jazz trio hired to play on the patio. She called it their ruby anniversary, as if a gemstone could justify her cruelty.
I grew up in that house—a modest three-bedroom ranch in the suburbs—but it had changed. Everything was polished now, from the marble floors to the curated family photos that didn’t include me or my daughter. My sister, Brenda, and her ten-year-old daughter Paige lived there rent-free, surrounded by the kind of comfort that my parents liked to brag about giving them. I guess guilt can be expensive, if you dress it up enough.
My daughter Riley was eight. Sweet, careful, observant. The kind of child who never demanded attention because she’d learned that attention wasn’t safe in our family. Paige was the opposite. Loud, spoiled, praised for existing. My parents adored her. They didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
It started small. A bigger Christmas gift here, a compliment there. But then it turned cruel. They began to call Riley “the helper,” then “the servant.” Eventually, “the slave.” Always with a chuckle, always pretending it was a joke. My parents thought they were teaching her humility. What they were really teaching her was where they believed she belonged.
When my father’s invitation arrived—an embossed card with “Your presence is required” printed across the bottom—I told my husband Dennis we shouldn’t go. He had a work trip, so it would be just me and Riley. I should have stayed home. But part of me needed to see it through. To look these people in the eye one last time before I stopped pretending they were family.
We arrived fifteen minutes late, which my mother immediately noted the moment we stepped inside. “You’re late,” she said, her smile tight, brittle.
“It started at two,” I said. “It’s two-fifteen.”
“Paige has been asking for Riley. She needs help setting up her craft station.”
Riley’s hand tightened in mine. I could feel the small tremor in her fingers.
“She’s not here to work,” I said. “She’s a guest.”
Mom’s smile disappeared. “Don’t start, Nicole. Not today.”
I didn’t respond. I just led Riley to the living room, where a cluster of kids were playing. Paige was in the center of them, surrounded by markers, paper, and glitter—her own little throne room. When she saw Riley, her face lit up. “Finally! I need you to organize these by color, then cut out the stars.”
“Riley’s going to play,” I said.
Paige blinked, then frowned. “But she always helps me.”
“Not today.”
Brenda appeared a second later, wine glass in hand, voice already laced with irritation. “What’s going on?”
“No problem,” I said. “Riley’s just playing with the other kids.”
Brenda’s eyes cooled, like a storm cloud settling over her face. “You’re embarrassing Mom.”
“By telling my daughter she’s not a servant?”
“By making a scene,” she snapped. Then she turned to Riley, her tone sugary sweet. “Honey, Paige really needs your help. Be a good girl.”
Riley hesitated, looking at me. I nodded toward the group of kids with blocks in the corner. “Go play,” I said softly. She obeyed.
And just like that, Paige burst into tears—loud, deliberate, attention-grabbing sobs. The room went silent. Brenda swooped in, hugging her daughter as if I’d committed some kind of abuse. “Look what you did,” she said through gritted teeth. “You always ruin everything.”
I walked away before I said something I’d regret.
The rest of the afternoon crawled by. I stayed close to Riley, intercepting the whispered comments and disapproving stares. Around four o’clock, my father clinked his glass for attention. The jazz trio stopped mid-song, and the room fell into that uncomfortable hush that always preceded one of his speeches.
He started with the usual nostalgia—forty years of marriage, hard work, family, tradition. Then his tone shifted. “As some of you know,” he said, “we’ve been doing some estate planning.”
My stomach went cold.
“We wanted to make sure our legacy is secure. So we’re proud to announce that our home and the $280,000 family trust will go to our granddaughter, Paige.”
Applause. Real applause. My uncle Frank even whooped. Brenda wiped tears from her eyes, beaming. Paige just stood there, confused but pleased, clutching her mother’s hand like a prize she’d earned by existing.
“And Riley?” someone asked from the crowd.
My mother laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh, Riley will have the honor of helping Paige manage everything someday. Every princess needs a good servant!”
The laughter that followed was sharp and mean, bouncing off the walls. Riley sat next to me, shoulders trembling, her little hands gripping the hem of her dress.
I stood up. “That’s not fair,” I said, my voice steady but low. “Riley’s your granddaughter too.”
My father’s expression hardened. “Sit down.”
“No,” I said. “You can’t just—”
He moved faster than I remembered he could. Three strides and he was in front of me, his hand gripping my collar. Then—impact. My back hit the wall hard enough that the picture frames rattled. Gasps. Silence.
“Shut your mouth,” he hissed, his face inches from mine, breath sour with whiskey. “This is not your house. You will not ruin this day.”
My mother appeared beside him, still holding a bowl of French onion soup from the buffet. Her voice was calm, almost eerily so. “Know your place.” Then she flung the soup directly onto my lap.
The heat was instant and blinding. It soaked through my dress, searing my thighs. I gasped, clutching at the fabric, but no one moved to help me. They just stood there, staring, waiting to see what I’d do next.
Then Brenda grabbed Riley. My daughter screamed, trying to pull away, but Brenda twisted her ear until she cried out. “Slaves don’t get inheritances,” Brenda said. “Stop crying and be grateful you’re even allowed here.”
Uncle Frank laughed. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing a slice of cake from the table. “Here’s your inheritance.” He threw it—right at Riley’s face.
The frosting hit her cheek and slid down, red and white like a bruise disguised as celebration. She stood there frozen, humiliated, trembling.
I tore myself away from my father’s grip and ran to her, kneeling despite the pain burning through my legs. I wiped the cake from her face with shaking hands. Her ear was bright red where Brenda had twisted it.
No one stopped them. Not one person.
I looked up. At my mother, her arms folded. At my father, chest heaving with self-righteous anger. At Brenda, smug and satisfied. At Frank, grinning. At the crowd of relatives—silent, complicit, pretending to be uncomfortable but unwilling to intervene.
And then something inside me went perfectly still.
I stood slowly, smoothing my ruined dress, meeting each of their eyes one by one. My voice came out calm, almost serene. “You know what’s funny?” I said. “I was wondering when you’d finally go this far.”
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I’m going to tell you something right up front that’s going to sound insane, but it’s true. I knew exactly how this was going to end 3 years before it happened. I’ve been planning for it, preparing, waiting for them to go far enough that I could finally act. My name’s Nicole. That detail matters later. The anniversary party was their 40th ruby anniversary.
Mom kept saying like the gemstone made it more important somehow. She’d been planning for 8 months. Caterer, florist, photographer, the works. The party was at their house, the same three-bedroom ranch in the suburbs where I grew up, where my sister Brenda still lived rentree with her daughter, Paige. My daughter Riley is eight. Paige is 10.
And for as long as Riley’s been alive, my parents have made it clear which granddaughter mattered. It started small. Birthday presents that cost three times as much for Paige. Christmas mornings where Riley got socks and Paige got the latest tech. Family photos where Riley was positioned in the back or cut out entirely when they framed them.
I told myself it was preference, favoritism, the normal kind of unfair that happens in families. Then it escalated. Paige started calling Riley my helper when she was five. My parents thought it was cute. When Riley was six, Brenda started making Riley carry Paige’s backpack at family gatherings, saying it was good for her to learn service.
When Riley turned seven, my father started introducing her as Paige’s companion to his friends. By the time Riley was eight, they dropped all pretense. They called her Paige’s slave to her face in front of other people like it was a joke. It wasn’t a joke. My husband Dennis and I had stopped going to most family events, but the 40th anniversary was supposedly mandatory.
Mom had sent a formal invitation with your presence is required printed at the bottom. Dennis had a work trip he couldn’t cancel, so it was just Riley and me. I should have stayed home, but I had my reasons for going. The party started at 2 on Saturday afternoon, May 10th. The house was packed with relatives I barely knew.
second cousins, mom’s bridge club friends, dad’s old colleagues from the accounting firm. There was a buffet table set up in the dining room, a cake the size of a coffee table, and a slideshow playing on the TV showing 40 years of my parents’ marriage. Riley and I arrived at 2:15. Mom saw us walk in, and her smile went tight. You’re late.
We’re 15 minutes past the start time. That’s not late. Paige has been asking for Riley. She looked down at Riley, who was holding my hand. Go find your cousin. She needs help setting up her craft station. Riley looked up at me. She had this expression, resigned, tired, that no 8-year-old should have. I squeezed her hand. Riley’s not here to work, I said.
She’s a guest. Mom’s face hardened. Don’t start. Not today. I didn’t respond. Just led Riley to the living room where most of the kids were playing. Paige was there surrounded by art supplies, directing two younger cousins like a tiny dictator. She saw Riley and her face lit up. Finally, I need you to organize these markers by color and then cut out these shapes for my project.
Riley’s going to play, I said. Not work on your project. Paige’s face scrunched up, but she always helps me. Not today. Brenda appeared from the kitchen. She was wearing a designer dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent and holding a glass of wine. What’s the problem? No problem. Riley’s going to play with the other kids instead of working for Paige.
Brenda’s eyes went cold. You’re making a scene. I’m setting a boundary. You’re embarrassing mom on her special day. She turned to Riley. Sweetie, why don’t you help Paige? You know she likes having you around. Riley opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. She’s not doing it. Riley, go play.
I pointed to a group of kids playing with building blocks in the corner. Riley hesitated, then walked over to them. Paige started crying. Loud theatrical sobs that brought half the room’s attention. Brenda scooped her up, shooting me a look of pure hatred. Look what you did. I walked away before I said something I’d regret. The party continued.
I stayed close to Riley, running interference every time someone tried to redirect her to Paige. Around 4:00, Dad stood up and clinkedked his glass for attention. The room went quiet. “Thanks everyone for coming to celebrate 40 years with my beautiful wife,” he started. “Standard anniversary speech stuff.
” He talked about their wedding, their early years, building a life together. Then he shifted gears. As some of you know, we’ve been doing some estate planning recently, getting our affairs in order, making sure everything’s set up properly for the next generation. He smiled at Brenda, then at Paige. We wanted to take this opportunity to make an announcement about our legacy. My stomach dropped.
I knew what was coming. We’ve decided to leave our estate, this house, and our family trust fund, which currently holds $280,000, entirely to our granddaughter, Paige. The room erupted in applause. Brenda was crying happy tears. Paige looked confused but pleased. My uncle Frank clapped the loudest, shouting, “Congratulations!” I stood frozen.
Riley was sitting next to me on the couch, and I felt her shrink into the cushions. Dad wasn’t done. We know this might seem unusual since we have two granddaughters, but Paige has shown herself to be the true inheritor of our family values. She’s smart, accomplished, and destined for great things. We’re proud to invest in her future. More applause.
Someone asked what Riley would get, and my mother laughed. Actually laughed and said, “She’ll have the honor of helping Paige manage it all someday. Every princess needs a good servant.” The room laughed like it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. My 8-year-old daughter publicly designated as a servant to her cousin, and they were laughing.
I stood up. That’s not fair. Riley’s your granddaughter, too. My father’s face went dark. Sit down. No, this is wrong. You can’t just He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed me by the collar, and slammed me against the wall. Photos rattled in their frames. The room went silent. Shut your mouth. He hissed.
His face was inches from mine, his breath hot with alcohol. This is not your decision. This is not your house. You will not ruin this day. My mother appeared next to him, holding a bowl of soup from the buffet. French onion still steaming. Know your place. She threw it directly at my lap. The burning liquid soaked through my dress and onto my thighs.
I gasped, the pain immediate and searing. I looked around for help. Anyone? But people were just standing there watching. Like this was normal. Like assaulting someone at a party was acceptable if it was your own daughter. Brenda grabbed Riley who’d started crying. She twisted Riley’s ear hard enough that Riley screamed, “Slaves don’t get inheritances.
Stop crying and be grateful you’re even allowed here.” Uncle Frank picked up a slice of the anniversary cake and threw it at Riley’s face. It hit her cheek and slid down, leaving a trail of frosting. “This is all you deserve.” Riley sobbed, cake dripping off her chin, her ear red from where Brenda had twisted it. I pulled away from my father and went to her, checking her ear, wiping the cake from her face.
My thighs burned from the soup. My collar was stretched from where dad had grabbed me and everyone was just standing there. I looked at my parents, at Brenda, at Uncle Frank, at all these people who were supposed to be family. Then I smiled. You know what’s funny? I said. My voice came out calm, almost pleasant.
I was wondering when you’d finally go this far. Mom’s expression flickered. What? I’ve been waiting three years actually documenting everything. The favoritism, the verbal abuse, the slave comments. I have videos, audio recordings, text messages. I even hired a private investigator last year to document the family trust fund and verify the sources of that $280,000.
The room had gone very quiet. Want to know what I found? I looked at my father. That trust fund isn’t just family savings like you told everyone. 41,000 of that money is from a family settlement in 1998 that was supposed to be divided between me and Brenda equally. But you put it all in an account under Brenda’s name claiming I’d signed a waiver.
I never signed anything. That’s 20,500 that should be mine. Dad’s face had gone white. Another 78,000 is from Grandma Dorothy’s estate when she died in 2003. She left specific instructions in her will that her savings be split equally among all her grandchildren. Me, Brenda, and our two cousins on Uncle Frank’s side.
They each got about 19,500. I got nothing. You told me grandma’s estate had been used for family expenses. That was a lie. I turned to my mother. And the house, the one you’re planning to leave entirely to Paige? You inherited it from your parents in 1989 with your sister Linda. She was supposed to get half, but during her messy divorce in 1990, you had her sign a quick claim deed, except she didn’t sign it. You forged her signature.
I had a forensic document examiner analyze it. She’s willing to testify. Mom grabbed the back of a chair. She looked like she might faint. The remaining 140,000 in that trust fund, that’s from dad’s inheritance from his parents and some investments you made. That part’s actually yours. But more than half of what you’re giving to Paige was stolen from me and Aunt Linda.
I pulled out my phone. I’ve been recording since Dad grabbed me. Got the whole thing. Audio and video. Assault. Battery. Child abuse. About 40 witnesses. Dead silence. Someone’s glass clinkedked against a table. So, here’s what’s going to happen. I continued. I’m leaving with Riley. Monday morning. My attorney is filing three lawsuits.
One for my share of the 1998 settlement with interest about $27,000. One for my share of Grandma Dorothy’s estate with interest about $26,000 and one on behalf of Aunt Linda who I contacted 6 months ago for her 50% of this house. I looked at Brenda that trust fund page was going to inherit. It’s going to be frozen pending litigation when it’s finally divided according to what Grandma Dorothy actually wanted.
equal shares for all her grandchildren. Paige will get about $70,000. Riley will get the same. You just lost $210,000. You can’t do this. Mom started. I already did. The paperwork’s ready. My attorney’s been on retainer for 18 months. I was just waiting for you to do something public and indefensible. I smiled again. Thanks for the witnesses.
I took Riley’s hand. She was still crying, her ear bright red cake smeared on her dress. We walked toward the door. Nobody moved to stop us. At the threshold, I turned back. Oh, and Dad, you might want to talk to a criminal attorney. Assault and battery charges are probably coming. That soup caused secondderee burns.
I’ll be documenting everything tomorrow. I walked out, got Riley into the car, drove away while 40 people stood in my parents’ house watching. Riley cried the whole way home. I kept checking my rearview mirror like someone might follow us, but nobody did. When we got home, I peeled off my dress carefully.
The burns on my thighs were already blistering, angry red patches about 8 square in total. I called the 24-hour nurse hotline first, described the burns, and they told me to go to the ER immediately for burns that size with blistering. At the ER, they cleaned and debreeded the burns, applied silver sulfodiaine cream, and covered them with specialized burn dressings.
The doctor said I’d need daily dressing changes for at least a week and gave me prescriptions for antibiotic cream and pain medication. He documented everything, photos, measurements, the mechanism of injury, and gave me paperwork for filing a police report. Riley’s ear was examined, too. Visible bruising from where Brenda had twisted it.
They gave me referral information for a child therapist. I called Dennis from the ER, told him to come home as soon as possible. Then I called my attorney, Patricia, and left a detailed message about what had happened. Finally, after we got home around midnight, I went to Riley’s room. She was lying in bed, still in her cake covered dress, staring at the ceiling.
“Does your ear still hurt?” I asked. She nodded. I got ice, wrapped it in a towel, and held it gently against her ear. I’m sorry that happened to you. Are we really suing Grandma and Grandpa? Yeah. Will they go to jail? Maybe. I don’t know. She was quiet for a long time then. Good. I didn’t know what to say to that.
So, I just held the ice to her ear and sat with her until she fell asleep. Update one. Dennis came home 2 days early, which meant he missed the absolute chaos that erupted Sunday morning. It started with phone calls. First, my mother crying and screaming about how I was destroying the family. Then, Brenda threatening to file for harassment.
Then, Uncle Frank demanding I drop the lawsuit or he’d make sure everyone knew what kind of person I really was. I didn’t answer any of them. Just forwarded the voicemails to Patricia. Sunday afternoon, Patricia called me. I got your message. Tell me everything. I told her. She listened without interrupting, occasionally making notes.
When I finished, she was quiet for a long moment. You’ve been planning this for 3 years. Yeah. And you waited until they assaulted you and Riley in front of witnesses. I needed it to be undeniable. I needed people to see who they really are. Another pause. That’s either brilliant or insane. Maybe both. She exhaled. Okay. The ER documentation is good.
That’s assault and battery with serious bodily harm. And the child abuse is clear. We’ll file police reports first thing Monday. What about the inheritance claims? Those are solid. The 1998 settlement. You have the original agreement showing equal division. Yes, it’s in my safety deposit box. And Grandma Dorothy’s will.
I have a certified copy. It explicitly states equal division among grandchildren. There were four of us. I got nothing while the others each got about 19,500. With interest over 21 years, your share is worth about 26,000 now. And the house. Aunt Linda has agreed to testify. The forensic document analyst confirmed the signature on the quick claim deed is forged.
Linda never willingly gave up her rights. Patricia made a satisfied sound. Good. We’ll file all three suits Monday. They’ll try to fight, but with the assault documented in 40 witnesses, they won’t want this going public. Monday morning, I filed police reports for assault and battery against both parents and child abuse against Brenda. The officer was initially skeptical until I showed him the ER records, photos of my burns, Riley’s bruised ear, and the video.
His expression changed completely. “This is serious,” he said. “We’ll open an investigation immediately.” The investigation moved faster than I expected. By Wednesday, detectives had interviewed eight witnesses from the party. All confirmed what happened. By Friday, they’d forwarded recommendations to the prosecutor for charges against all three.
Patricia filed the civil lawsuits on Monday as planned. All three complaints hit the court system simultaneously. The fallout was immediate and spectacular. My parents hired an expensive attorney who called Patricia on Thursday trying to negotiate. I listened on speakerphone. “Your client is pursuing frivolous litigation to harass elderly people,” he said smoothly.
“My client has documentation of theft spanning 25 years and video evidence of assault and child abuse,” Patricia replied. 40 witnesses, er records, I don’t think you want discovery. Silence. Then what does she want? What she’s owed? Her share of the 1998 settlement with 25 years of interest, $27,000. Her share of Grandma Dorothy’s estate with 21 years of interest, 26,000.
And her aunt’s 50% share of the house through either sale or buyout at current market value of 320,000. That’s over 190,000 just for the house claim. Your clients forged a legal document and stole property. My client’s aunt is entitled to half. If they want to buy out her share, that’s 160,000 after accounting for the remaining mortgage of 48,000 and estimated closing costs of 12,000.
He tried to bluster about proving the forgery. Patricia shut him down. We have a forensic expert. We have Aunt Linda’s testimony. We have the timeline of her divorce when she wasn’t paying attention to estate matters. You want to go to trial where a jury hears how your clients exploited their own family members? Where they see video of them assaulting their daughter and granddaughter? He hung up.
The prosecutor filed criminal charges in early June. My father and mother assault and battery causing bodily harm. Brenda, misdemeanor child abuse. All three hired attorneys. The cases were set for trial in September, but none of them wanted a public trial. In late July, they took plea deals.
guilty p in exchange for one-year probation, mandatory anger management, and a two-year restraining order prohibiting any contact with me or Riley within 500 ft. The restraining orders were my idea. Patricia had insisted on them, and the prosecutor agreed. The civil suit settled piece by piece. The 1998 settlement case went first.
My parents couldn’t produce any evidence I’d waved my share. They settled in early August for 27,000 plus 15,000 in legal fees. Total 42,000. Grandma Dorothy’s estate settled in midepptember. Again, no documentation that my share had been used for my benefit. Settlement 26,000 plus 12,000 in legal fees. Total 38,000. The house was the hardest fight.
Aunt Linda’s claim was solid, but my mother hired a second forensic expert who said the signature could be authentic. It went to mediation in late October. After two brutal days, we settled. Mom would sell the house within 6 months and split the net proceeds with Linda 50/50. The house sold in December for 320,000. After paying off the 48,000 mortgage and 12,000 in closing costs, net proceeds were 260,000.
Linda got 130,000. She insisted on splitting it with me. You did all the work. You took all the risk. This is as much yours as mine. I tried to refuse. She sent me a check for $65,000. Anyway, total recovery 1998 settlement $42,000. Grandma Dorothy $38,000. Aunt Linda’s gift $65,000 total $145,000. I put every penny into a trust fund for Riley.
The family trust fund was frozen from May until November, 6 months, while the estate claims were litigated. Once everything settled, the court ordered it divided according to Grandma Dorothy’s will, equal shares to all four grandchildren. Riley got 70,000. Paige got 70,000. The two cousins got their shares, too. Paige’s expected inheritance went from 280,000 to 70,000 overnight.
Brenda was furious but powerless. My parents lost the house in December and moved into a small rental. I heard they were barely speaking to each other. Brenda and Paige moved in with Uncle Frank. Paige was apparently having problems at school. Brenda was working two jobs to cover her legal bills.
I felt bad about that for maybe 5 seconds. Final update. Christmas came. Riley and I decorated our apartment. Just the two of us since Dennis was traveling for work. We put up a small tree, hung stockings, baked cookies. Normal, quiet, peaceful. Riley asked once if we’d ever see grandma and grandpa again. I told her the truth. Not for 2 years because of the restraining order that started when they were sentenced in August and maybe never after that. Good, she said.
Same thing she’d said the night of the party. I took her to Dr. Brennan, the child therapist, every week through the fall. By December, Riley was smiling more, acting like a kid instead of a traumatized adult. Dr. Brennan said the emotional abuse had caused real damage, but removing her from the situation was the most important thing.
In January, I got a letter from my mother through Patricia’s office. Direct contact would violate the restraining order. Two pages of apologies and excuses. She was sorry. She wanted a relationship with Riley. I read it once and filed it away without responding. Valentine’s Day brought homemade cards from Riley.
None for her grandparents. No mention of them. Progress. In March, Riley turned nine. We threw a party at a trampoline park with 15 of her school friends. She laughed and played and looked genuinely happy. I took a photo of her mid jump, arms spread wide, face lit up with joy. Such a difference from the girl who had cake thrown at her face 10 months earlier.
The trust fund I’d set up for Riley now held $215,000. My settlement money, $145,000, plus her share from the divided family trust, $70,000. Invested conservatively, it would grow. By 18, she’d have enough for any college she wanted. Maybe graduate school, too. Maybe a house down payment. All because I’d spent three years documenting abuse.
All because I’d waited for the right moment to fight back. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. If the years of litigation hurt Riley more than just walking away would have. Then I remember her face when Brenda twisted her ear. The way she shrank when my parents announced Paige would get everything.
8 years of being called a slave. Being treated as less than being told she didn’t matter. No, I did the right thing. It’s quiet in our apartment now. Riley’s asleep in her room. Nightlight on because she still doesn’t like total darkness. Dennis is snoring softly next to me. The heater clicks on. Warm air flowing through the vents.
Outside, I can hear traffic on the main road. The distant sound of a train whistle. The smoke detector chirps once. Battery getting low. I’ll change it tomorrow. Normal sounds. Safe sounds. The kind that mean we’re home and we’re okay and nobody’s going to hurt us.
