At Easter dinner, my sister shoved my daughter out of “her” seat. “You filthy parasite—you’re dirtying my chair!” she snapped. My parents didn’t even react, just urging everyone to “eat while the food’s hot,” pretending nothing happened. They thought they could ignore it. Until I quietly took my daughter’s hand, walked out… and made one call: “Fire Elena.”

Chapter 1: The Ghost at the Feast
The gravel crunching under the tires of my ten-year-old Honda Civic sounded like an apology. It was a stark, grinding contrast to the smooth, paved silence of the driveway, which was already occupied by a gleaming white BMW X5 and my father’s vintage Jaguar.

“Mommy, are we going to stay long?” Lily asked from the backseat. Her voice was small, tight with the intuitive anxiety that children often develop before their parents do. She was five years old, clutching a worn-out stuffed rabbit that had been stitched back together three times.

“Just for dinner, sweetie,” I said, catching her eye in the rearview mirror. “Grandma and Grandpa want to celebrate Aunt Elena’s big news.”

“Aunt Elena is loud,” Lily whispered.