At the barbecue, my sister looked at my daughter, who has special needs, and said loudly, “Your daughter will always need help.”
Then laughed.
She proceeded to yell, “If I had a brat like this, I would just abandon it.”
My five-year-old daughter stopped eating and started crying.
Dad added, “Some kids are just burdens.”
Brother agreed.
“Finally, someone being honest.”
When my daughter tried to leave the table, my sister grabbed her arm and shoved her back down.
“Sit and take it.”
Mom threw her napkin at my daughter.
“Stop crying. You’re ruining dinner.”
I looked at my sister and said calmly, “Like how your kids need my financial help every single day.”
My sister stopped mid-bite.
Her face went red.
Mom whispered desperately, “Please don’t say anything more, but I—”
The barbecue smoke drifted across my parents’ backyard while Emma sat beside me, carefully cutting her hamburger into precise squares.
She’d always eaten that way since she was three.
My daughter had Down syndrome, and watching her concentrate on making each piece exactly the same size filled me with pride every single time.
“Megan, pass the klelaw.”
My sister Vanessa called from across the picnic table.
Her twin boys, both eleven, were throwing food at each other while she scrolled through her phone.
I handed her the bowl.
Emma looked up at me with those bright eyes and smiled.
She’d been doing so well lately.
Her speech therapy sessions were paying off, and she could now form complete sentences most of the time.
We’d celebrated her fifth birthday last month with a princess party, and she danced with every guest.
My brother Tyler sat at the far end of the table with his girlfriend Amber.
Dad was flipping burgers at the grill while Mom fussed over the potato salad presentation.
Everything seemed normal enough.
I should have known better.
“So, Emma,” Vanessa said suddenly, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “How’s kindergarten going?”
Emma’s face lit up.
“I… I like painting.”
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart,” I said, squeezing her hand gently.
Vanessa’s expression shifted.
The smile turned cruel.
“Your daughter will always need help,” she laughed.
The sound was sharp and ugly across the peaceful afternoon.
Other heads turned.
My spine went rigid.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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