While my 5-year-old daughter was asleep, my sister smeared something that burned her eyes. My little girl woke up screaming, begging, “Mom, I can’t see…” while my sister laughed. When I tried to call for help, my mother smashed my phone and my father locked us inside. That was the moment I decided they would regret every second of what they’d done…

The jar of artisanal chili paste slipped from my sister’s fingers, landing with a dull thud on the plush carpet, but the sound was instantly drowned out by a scream that shredded my soul.

It wasn’t a cry of surprise. It was the primal, jagged shriek of a five-year-old child who has just been introduced to true agony.

I stood in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, the air suddenly thick with the metallic scent of adrenaline and the sharp, vinegar tang of peppers. My sister, Miranda, stood over the bed where my daughter, Sophie, was thrashing, her tiny hands clawing at her own face.