My daughter’s birthday party fell apart before anyone even finished singing. The three-tier pink cake was crushed under my sister-in-law’s knife while my baby sat in her high chair, frosting on her tiny hands and fear in her eyes. Marisol stood in the middle of my living room, breathing hard, her black dress dotted with buttercream, the knife trembling in her hand.
“Forty-seven times,” she screamed. “Forty-seven times you took something from me!”
The room froze. My husband, Daniel, did not move toward me. He moved toward her instead, speaking softly, as if she were the one who needed protection.
“Marisol,” he said. “Put it down.”
I lifted my daughter, Isla, from her chair and held her close against my shoulder. Her crying came in small, confused gasps.
