I didn’t respond. My mother laughed beside her, like that was the funniest observation ever given.

“That’s what happens when you don’t pick the right men, Danny,” my mom said, loud enough for others to hear. “Trash breeds trash.”

Haley reached for my hand. I squeezed back.

My dad walked up behind me. “You look miserable, Danny. Maybe if you tried being more feminine growing up, you wouldn’t have ended up a single mother.”

This was their sport: psychological hunting.

I told Haley, “Go sit by the edge and watch the water. I’ll fix you a plate.”

I turned away for 5 seconds. Just 5 seconds.

When I turned back, Rachel was behind Haley. And she shoved her straight into the deep end of the pool. Fully clothed—jeans, hoodie, socks, everything.

My scream didn’t even sound like a scream. It was primal. I ran toward the pool. Haley was sinking. Her hair spread like black ink underwater. She wasn’t coming up fast. She was eight. She was panicking.