“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.

“This is what I mean. Everything becomes a huge tragedy with her.”

Something inside me changed.

The mud wasn’t the problem.

I owned a commercial cleaning company. Mud was probably the easiest problem in the room.

What bothered me was the way my sister looked at my crying child—as though Lucy’s feelings were an inconvenience everyone else should be protected from.

I crouched beside her.

“Sweetheart, did you tell them to stop?”

She nodded.

“How many times?”

“A lot.”