"Do I look like I'm joking?"
I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairs.
"Oh, and tell Blanche to delete that post."
"Otherwise, I'd be happy to remind her what her life was like back at the family home."
At the foot of the stairs, it suddenly hit me—I hadn't seen my daughter since I got back from my business trip.
"By the way, where's Irene?"
Blanche's crying stopped dead.
Vincent's eyes darted away.
"Oh, Irene? She's in her room doing homework."
"The kid's been kind of withdrawn lately. Doesn't talk much."
My stomach dropped. Something was wrong.
Irene had always been cheerful. Why would she suddenly become withdrawn?
I ignored Vincent trying to stop me and rushed toward Irene's room.
The moment I pushed open the door, my world collapsed.
The room was dark, the air heavy and suffocating.
Irene Pruitt was curled up in the shadowy corner of her bed, like a frightened animal.
At the sound of the door, she flinched violently, instinctively throwing her arms over her head.
"Don't hit me... I'm sorry... I'll go wash the clothes right now..."
My heart seized, crushed by an invisible fist. I couldn't breathe.
"Irene, it's Mom."
I rushed to her and pulled her into my arms.
Her body was so thin it hurt to hold her, and she wouldn't stop shaking.
In the light spilling from the hallway, I finally saw her face.
Her left cheek—once fair and smooth—was swollen and red. The corner of her mouth was bruised.
Her school uniform was filthy, marked with what looked like footprints.
With trembling hands, I pushed up her sleeve.
Pinch marks covered her arm. Purple and blue, overlapping, horrifying.
"Who did this?"
My voice shook.
Irene lifted her head. Her eyes were hollow as she looked at me.
Tears rolled down her cheeks in heavy drops.
"Mom... it hurts so much... None of the kids at school like me..."
"Blanche said... if I told you, she'd have them beat me to death..."
Something exploded in my head. White-hot rage flooded through me.
I had raised Blanche like my own daughter—and behind my back, she'd been conspiring with others to torment my real child.
"What's going on? What's all the fuss about?"
Vincent had followed me up at some point. He stood in the doorway, looking annoyed.
"Kids roughhouse. It's normal."
"Irene's always been like this—so dramatic. One little bump and she's in tears."
"Blanche was just toughening her up."
Slap!
I set Irene down and stormed over, cracking my palm across Vincent's face.