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.

The video played with a grainy, almost eerie stillness—no background music, no dramatic angles, just the raw truth of what happened that afternoon. Seventeen-year-old me gasping on the carpet, my fingers trembling as I reached toward the inhaler, and Camille looming above me with a smile that now made the entire courtroom shift uncomfortably in their seats.

My mother could be heard off camera, saying casually, “Camille, don’t tease your sister,” in the same tone someone might use to comment about overcooked pasta. My father didn’t speak at all.

When the screen went black, silence crashed over the room. Camille’s attorney looked stunned, flipping through his notes like maybe there was some magical argument buried inside them that could undo what everyone had just witnessed.

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