On Easter Sunday, my daughter called me sobbing, “Dad, please come get me.” My son-in-law laughed as his mother shoved me off the porch—“Go back to your lonely house.” I pushed inside… and found my daughter on the floor, bruised and bleeding while they hunted eggs. They thought I’d walk away—until I quietly made one call that would end everything.

Lily’s eyes fluttered open. She clung to the fabric of my old flannel shirt, her body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane.

Richard let out a short, condescending scoff from behind me. He walked casually over to the crystal decanter on the wet bar and poured himself a heavy glass of amber Scotch.

“Old man, you need to calm down,” Richard sneered, swirling the expensive liquid in his glass. “She’s just being dramatic. She’s a clumsy girl. She tripped and hit her head on the fireplace mantle.”

I looked down at Lily’s neck. The finger-shaped bruises were undeniable.

“She tripped,” I growled, looking up at him, “and left handprints on her own neck, did she, Richard?”

Eleanor walked into the room, her mimosa still in her hand. She looked down at the blood seeping into her five-thousand-dollar rug, and clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Eleanor sighed, her voice devoid of any human compassion. “Look at the mess. Richard, I told you to call the maid to clean this up before the guests come inside for dinner. This is completely unacceptable.”