I guided my mother to the living room, helping her sit on the sofa that Livia had once forbidden us to use because it was “merely decorative.”
“Bring the first aid kit,” I said, my voice firm and unyielding.
Livia crossed her arms and feigned concern. “It is just a scratch. Stop overreacting.”
I stepped closer, letting the intensity in my eyes make her understand the seriousness. “Bring it immediately, or you leave this house in the next car that arrives.”
She rushed upstairs.
I tended to Juniper and my mother, and then inserted the flash drive into my laptop. The footage was horrifying. Livia had forced my mother to clean for hours while laughing and mocking her. She locked Juniper in a tiny closet for long stretches and belittled both women in front of guests. The weight of every insult, every act of cruelty, filled me with rage.
I closed the laptop and spoke with quiet authority. “This ends now.”
When Livia returned with the first aid kit, pretending concern, I said, “You will no longer harm anyone under this roof. Not my mother, not Juniper, not the children. If you attempt to, there will be consequences.”