Her father had put it there, deliberately, the night before.

The power to act, the power to answer three years of cruelty, the power to decide whether Beatrice’s reign continued unchallenged or ended right here at this brunch table, all of it now sat inside a beaded purse, in a little girl’s hand, hers to use or not use exactly as she chose.

And she chose.

I watched her make the decision, watched it settle over her small face, a calm I had never seen there before.

She wrapped her fingers around the red velvet box, and she drew it out of the purse, and she pushed back her dining chair, and she stood up.