3aMy own parents beat my sleeping six-year-old and smashed her face for my niece's birthday photos. They clinked glasses and laughed, "Finally she'll look as worthless as she is." I didn't argue — I called 911 while their perfect front lawn filled with sirens.

That evening, back in Lily's hospital room, we watched a local news broadcast on the wall-mounted television.

The anchorwoman stood in front of the county courthouse, her expression solemn.

“...breaking developments tonight in the high-profile arrest of prominent philanthropist Robert Sterling and his wife Patricia. Prosecutors have added charges of witness tampering and financial coercion after discovering attempts to bribe former estate staff. Meanwhile, community outrage continues to mount following the release of court documents detailing the assault of their six-year-old granddaughter last Friday night...”

Footage flashed on the screen: my father, handcuffed and wearing an orange jumpsuit, shielding his face with a manicured hand as reporters flashed cameras in his face. My mother kept her chin high, glaring daggers at the camera lens with the same cold, unrepentant smirk she had worn in the hallway while Lily bled upstairs.

Lily pointed a small finger at the screen, her voice quiet. "Are they going away for a long time, Mommy?"

I reached out, turning off the television with the remote, and sat down on the edge of her bed.

"Yes, baby," I said, taking her hand. "They are going away for a very long time. And we never have to see them again."

Lily looked down at her purple cast on her right wrist—sustained when she tried to block the blow—and then up at me. "Can we move to a different town? Where there are no big white houses?"

"We can move anywhere you want," I promised her, my voice thick with emotion. "We can move near the ocean. We can get a little house with a porch and paint the front door bright yellow. Just you and me."