Before I could finish, David walked in holding the home camera. “Wait,” he said quietly. He pressed play.
On screen, Rachel was seen slipping an envelope into her purse earlier that evening. The truth flashed in front of everyone.
The room fell into stunned silence. Rachel’s face went pale. I thought it was over—but then my mother’s expression twisted. Without warning, she grabbed the baseball bat leaning near the wall—a part of David’s sports collection—and swung.
Pain exploded across my forehead. I stumbled, hearing my daughter Ella scream. Then the bat came down again—this time on my little girl.
The world turned red and dizzy. I fell, blood in my mouth, the sound of Ella’s cry echoing. “Mom, stop!” I shouted, dragging myself toward her. But my body wouldn’t move. David tore the bat from my mother’s hands while Rachel stood frozen, white as a ghost.
Sirens wailed in the distance. The neighbors had already called 911. I gathered Ella in my arms—her forehead bleeding, eyes fluttering. “Stay with me, baby,” I whispered, pressing my face against hers.