Chapter 2 - The Backyard Tribunal
The moment I stepped onto the patio, the cheerful birthday music felt like a sick joke.
A dozen heads turned toward me in unison. Laughter died instantly, replaced by an awkward, suffocating hush. My aunt Claire froze with a paper plate full of potato salad in her hand. My cousin Marcus stopped mid-sentence while pouring beer into a red plastic cup.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," someone whispered near the barbecue grill.
I didn't care about the blood running down my cheek, staining the front of Rosie’s yellow sundress a terrifying shade of crimson. I pushed through the crowd toward the driveway where my car was parked, desperate to throw my baby into the backseat and drive straight to the nearest emergency room.
"Stop her!" Natalie shrieked from the top of the porch stairs, her hair disheveled, pointing an accusing finger at me. "She’s having a psychotic break! She’s trying to kidnap Autumn’s cousin!"
Instantly, the paralyzed crowd shifted. My uncle Greg—a man who had never looked twice at me in my entire life—stepped directly into my path, blocking the walkway to the driveway.
"Hold on a second, Cassie," Uncle Greg said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Let's all calm down. Natalie said you’re not thinking clearly. You’ve always been high-strung, honey. Remember when you cried at Thanksgiving?"
"Move," I choked out, my voice cracking with absolute desperation. "Move out of my way, Greg. My daughter is dying."
"She's sleeping, Cassie," my mother chimed in, having finally caught up, smoothing down her designer linen blouse as if nothing had happened. Though she had a nasty bruise forming where I shoved her, her face was a mask of cold, chilling authority. "Natalie gave her a tiny dose of allergy medication because she was throwing a tantrum. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Go upstairs, wash your face, and stop embarrassing yourself in front of the neighbors."
The neighbors.
That was their god. The neighbors. The suburban tribunal of judgment that dictated who belonged and who was cast out.
Several guests murmured in agreement. "She does look a bit hysterical," a woman I barely recognized whispered loudly. "Poor Natalie, having to deal with that on her daughter's birthday."
Greg crossed his arms, refusing to budge. "Why don't you hand the little one to your mother, Cassie? Go inside and put a cold compress on your head. You clearly hit yourself on something."
I looked at the ring of faces surrounding me—family members who had shared holidays, weddings, and funerals with us, people who had watched me cry in waiting rooms for five sterile years before Rosie was born. Not a single one of them saw a dying child. They only saw an inconvenience. They only saw the family script being disrupted.
"She didn't give her allergy medication," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steadying with a cold, terrifying clarity that made Greg take an involuntary half-step back. "She gave her an intentional overdose of Benadryl to shut her up. And when I found her not breathing, Natalie smashed a wine bottle over my head to keep me from calling 911."
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A collective gasp rippled through the yard. Natalie’s face went chalk white, and she opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, I reached into the pocket of my jeans, pulled out my backup phone, and tapped the screen.
"Don't worry," I said, holding the glowing device high in the air. "I don't need to call 911 anymore. Because the whole thing is already being broadcasted live to the entire neighborhood."
