I collapsed to my knees during an asthma attack, fighting for air while my younger sister held my inhaler just out of reach. She smirked and said, “Gasp, loser.” My parents stood by and did nothing. Today, in court, when the judge said, “Before we begin, let’s watch a family video,” she started shaking—and then screaming.

I dropped to my knees mid-asthma attack, clawing for air while my younger sister, Camille, held my rescue inhaler just out of reach. She smirked and whispered, “Gasp, loser,” like my pain was entertainment. My parents sat on the couch behind her—watching, unmoving, almost bored. That image would haunt me for decades: me begging for air while the people who should have protected me turned their faces toward the TV.

For years, I convinced myself it wasn’t as bad as it felt. I told myself families had their flaws. I told myself maybe I was dramatic like they said. It was easier than facing the truth: I grew up in a home where cruelty passed as normal.

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