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 hired a digital forensics specialist—an old high school acquaintance named Hannah Pierce—who recovered a video from a forgotten DVD I had taken years ago. The footage showed everything. The attack. The inhaler. Camille’s taunting laughter. My parents watching like it was none of their concern.

And emails.

Hundreds of emails between my mother, Diane Brooks, and Camille. Emails discussing how to “maintain appearances,” how to “keep Grandma from taking Lena’s side,” how to “make sure no one trusts her version of events.”

The morning of the hearing, I walked into the courthouse with Hannah and a folder full of truth that had been buried nearly two decades. I thought Camille would be angry when she saw me. Instead, she froze—eyes wide, breath shallow—like she had seen a ghost.

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