The gravel on the driveway crunched under the tires of a speeding car, a sound that used to signal joy in the Henderson household, but now only signaled dread.

Sarah stood by the kitchen window, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped her coffee mug. It was the third time this week. The red sedan swerved to a halt, and out stepped Emily. Her daughter. Once the light of their lives, Emily now looked like a ghost of herself—gaunt, frantic, with eyes that darted around like a trapped animal.

And, as always, the shadow of Mark loomed over her. He didn’t get out of the car. He sat in the passenger seat, wearing sunglasses, tapping on his phone, waiting like a vulture. Mark, the husband Sarah had begged Emily not to marry. The gambler. The man who had turned their brilliant, vibrant daughter into a desperate beggar.

“She’s back, Tom,” Sarah whispered.

Tom, sitting at the kitchen table, didn’t look up from his newspaper, but his shoulders slumped. He looked twenty years older than he had a year ago. “I’ll handle it, Sarah. You stay here.”

The front door burst open. Emily didn’t say hello. She didn’t ask how they were. She marched straight into the hallway, her voice already pitched high in hysteria

The sound of something heavy—a lamp, perhaps, or a bookend—hitting the wall made Sarah jump.

A moment later, the door flew open. Emily stormed out. She was pale, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. She walked past Sarah without a glance, her eyes cold and dead. She didn’t look like a daughter anymore; she looked like a stranger with a vendetta.

Tom stepped out a moment later. He was adjusting his tie, his hands shaking violently. He looked at the shattered lamp on the floor and then at his wife.

“It’s done,” Tom said, his voice hoarse. “She won’t be bothering us anymore.”