“Mommy, can I help with the drinks?” Lily asked, her brown curls bouncing.

Before I could warn her, she grabbed the water pitcher, determined to impress her grandmother, Constance Whitmore—an elegant woman who ran her household with military stiffness and zero patience for children.

“Careful, sweetheart—” I started, but Lily took a step, then another.

Her foot snagged on the edge of the Persian rug.

The pitcher slipped.

A waterfall of cold water splashed across the hardwood floor. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Every head turned.

“Oh no,” Lily whispered.

Constance marched forward, her face twisted with fury. Before I could reach my daughter, her hand cracked across Lily’s cheek. The sound echoed like a gunshot.