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.

Margaret dropped to her knees in the wet grass. The world spun. “She’s… she’s asking for me?”

“She’s terrified, Margaret. She keeps saying ‘Mom.’ You need to get back here. We need you to keep her calm. If her blood pressure spikes, she could hemorrhage again. You need to be here now.”

Margaret looked at the house. Inside, the silhouettes of Brad and his mother were still moving. They were alive. They were free.

But Emily was awake.

The realization hit her like a thunderclap. If she threw that match now, the police would come. She would be arrested for arson and double homicide. She would go to prison for the rest of her life.

And Emily? Emily would wake up in a hospital bed, broken and terrified, with no mother to hold her hand. She would be alone.

Margaret looked at the lighter in her hand. It was the weight of vengeance.