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.

“Burn,” she whispered.

She started at the back door. She splashed the gasoline over the expensive teak deck furniture. She moved along the perimeter, dousing the white siding, the curtains visible through the open window, the dry decorative bushes that lined the foundation.

She moved like a phantom. She circled the entire house, leaving a wet, glistening trail of accelerant. She saved the last gallon for the front porch—the grand entrance Mrs. Gable was so proud of.

She poured it over the welcome mat. She poured it over the massive oak doors.

She backed up onto the lawn, the empty canister clattering to the grass. The rain had stopped, leaving the air still and heavy. Perfect conditions.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out the windproof matches. She struck one.

The flame flared to life, orange and hungry against the twilight.

She looked at the window again. She saw Mrs. Gable walk into the room and say something to Brad. Brad laughed.