“I said go away!” Vanessa snapped, standing up. “Do you not understand Portuguese?”
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“Get out of my sight!”
Vanessa shoved her—hard.
Maya lost her balance, tripped on the rug, and fell backward. Her back slammed into the sharp corner of the coffee table—glass and marble.
The pain stole the air from her lungs. She screamed.
Blood spread across her white blouse.
Vanessa froze for a few seconds. Maya saw panic flicker across her face—then calculation.
“Get up,” Vanessa said coldly. “Stop acting.”
“It hurts,” Maya sobbed.
“I said get up.” Vanessa yanked her arm. “And if you tell your father I pushed you, I’ll tell him you were running around and fell.”
Who do you think he’ll believe—you or me?
Maya was eight. Terrified of losing her father too, she nodded through her tears.
Vanessa dragged her to the bathroom, wiped away the blood with paper towels, and slapped on several oversized bandages.
“It’s nothing. Change your shirt and keep your mouth shut.”
Maya stayed silent—but the wound didn’t heal.
It worsened.
After a week, the pain increased.
After two, it began to leak.
After three, she developed a fever.
By the fourth week, the skin was swollen and red.