My husband slapped me in front of his entire family on Thanksgiving… but then my daughter Emma stepped forward with her tablet and said five words that silenced the whole room and made my husband’s face go white with terror. The sound echoed through the dining room like a gunshot. The sharp sting burned across my cheek as I stumbled backward, my hand instinctively flying to the red mark blooming across my face.
The Thanksgiving turkey sat forgotten on the table as twelve pairs of eyes stared at me.
Some shocked, others satisfied, all silent. My husband Maxwell stood over me, his hands still raised, chest heaving with rage.
“Don’t you ever embarrass me in front of my family again,” he snarled, his voice dripping with venom. His mother smirked from her chair.
His brother chuckled under his breath.
His sister rolled her eyes as if I deserved it. But then, from the corner of the room, came a voice so small yet so sharp it could cut through steel. “Daddy.”
Every head turned toward my nine-year-old daughter, Emma, who stood by the window with her tablet clutched against her chest.
Her dark eyes, so much like mine, held something that made the air in the room shift.
Something that made Maxwell’s confident sneer falter. “You shouldn’t have done that,” she said, her voice steady and eerily calm for a child.
“Because now Grandpa is going to see.”
The color drained from Maxwell’s face. His family exchanged confused glances, but I saw something else creeping into their expressions, a flicker of fear they couldn’t yet name.
“What are you talking about?” Maxwell demanded, but his voice cracked.
Emma tilted her head, studying him with the intensity of a scientist examining a specimen. “I’ve been recording you, Daddy. Everything.
For weeks.
And I sent it all to Grandpa this morning.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Maxwell’s family began to shift uncomfortably in their chairs, suddenly understanding that something had gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.
“He said to tell you,” Emma continued, her small voice carrying the weight of impending doom, “that he’s on his way.”
And that’s when they started to pale. That’s when the begging began.
Three hours earlier, I had been standing in the same kitchen, methodically basting the turkey while my hands shook with exhaustion.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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