My baby’s birthday party fell apart when my sister-in-law sla:mmed a k:n:i:f:e into the cake and yelled, “Forty-seven times—you took what was mine!” My husband told me to leave, thinking it would bre:ak me. But I already had the proof to expose them all.

“Marisol,” he said. “Put it down.”

I lifted my daughter, Isla, from her chair and held her close against my shoulder. Her crying came in small, confused gasps.

“What is she talking about?” I asked.

Daniel’s mother, Carmen, crossed her arms.

“Don’t pretend, Elena.”

I looked at the ruined cake, the split pink roses, the frosting scattered across the floor.

“Pretend what?”

Marisol laughed, sharp and broken.