“Tell your daughter to stop crying — she’s ruining Easter f0r the good kids,” sister screamed after her twins they dirtied my 6-year-0ld daughter’s dress with mud from head to toe.

Behind her stood Tessa’s eight-year-old twins, Noah and Nate.

They were almost perfectly clean.

My father, Frank, remained seated at the dining table as if nothing serious had happened. Mom stood near the sink, looking uncomfortable. Tessa’s husband, Greg, stared at the floor.

I looked at Lucy.

“What happened outside?”

She struggled to speak through her tears.

“They pushed me.”

“Lucy!” Tessa snapped. “Enough.”