The stepmother dumped milk over the little girl… Then the wealthy man roared, “ENOUGH!”
Richard Whitman’s pulse raced as the taxi slowed in front of his two-story house in suburban Chicago. After three long weeks of business in London, he was finally home.
In his imagination, he pictured it perfectly: seven-year-old Emily rushing to the door shouting “Daddy!”; baby Alex babbling happily in his high chair; and Vanessa, his wife of two years, greeting him with a loving smile.
This was his purpose in life—the family he thought was waiting for him.
He climbed out of the taxi, suitcase in hand, heart swelling with anticipation. He had even brought small gifts from abroad: a picture book for Emily, a teddy bear for Alex. He imagined their laughter, the joy filling the rooms again.
But the moment he turned the key and stepped inside, the welcome he’d longed for never came.
Instead, the sharp crash of breaking glass froze him in place.
Then—a sob. High, broken.
Richard’s chest clenched. He rushed toward the kitchen, each step heavier than the last.
The sight before him shattered the dream he carried.
Emily sat on the cold tile, milk dripping from her hair, soaking her little dress, pooling beneath her. In her shaking arms, she clutched Alex, shielding him as best she could.
Towering over them stood Vanessa, the empty pitcher raised like a weapon, fury twisting her face.
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“Please, Mom, I’m sorry,” Emily whispered through trembling lips…
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