At 5 a.m., I got a call from my son-in-law: “Come pick up your daughter at the bus stop. We don’t want her anymore.” When I arrived, my daughter was barely breathing, covered in bruises and broken bones. She sobbed, “My husband and his mother… they beat me.” Rage exploded inside me. I rushed her to the hospital, but she didn’t survive. I packed my bags and went to their house—because that family needed to understand what it feels like when a mother loses her child.

She got out. The smell of wet earth and pine was thick in the air. She grabbed the heavy gas can. The fuel sloshed inside, a heavy, liquid promise of destruction.

She walked up the hill. The mansion loomed ahead, a white monstrosity glowing with soft, amber light. It looked peaceful. It looked like a postcard.

Margaret reached the back patio. Through the French doors, she could see into the living room.

Brad was there. He was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a tumbler of scotch. He was watching TV. He looked annoyed, shifting comfortably, adjusting a pillow.

He wasn’t grieving. He wasn’t panicked. He was relaxed.

Margaret felt a laugh bubble up in her throat—a hysterical, jagged thing. He had beaten his wife into a coma that morning, and now he was watching sports.

She uncapped the gas can. The fumes hit her instantly, sharp and chemical, stinging her eyes.