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 told the courtroom about the years after the asthma attack. How my family insisted I “misremembered.” How relatives stopped calling. How college acceptance letters vanished. How every attempt to stand up for myself was dismissed as overreaction.

“I was easier to blame than to acknowledge,” I said softly, “that they allowed something unforgivable to happen.”

By the time I finished, several jurors had tears in their eyes.

Camille, meanwhile, sat rigid, clutching the table so tightly her knuckles whitened.

Then, breaking the last of her composure, she shot to her feet.

“You don’t understand!” she shouted. “She was always in the way! Mom said—Mom said—”

“Ms. Hale,” the judge snapped. “Sit. Down.”

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