Sofia was clutching a worn stuffed rabbit, the last gift she had received from her mother before she died, the toy she carried everywhere, that she slept with every night.

And Chloe marched toward them, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood.

“How many times do I have to tell you brats,” she snapped, “that I don’t want you lounging around in the main living room?” And on the screen, both of my little girls jumped.

I leaned forward, my stomach beginning to turn, because there was something in the way they jumped that pierced me before I had even processed the words.

They did not look surprised by her tone.