The room fell into silence as Colonel Mitchell, flanked by two uniformed officers, stepped into the dining room. His eyes landed on my swollen cheek, then narrowed on Maxwell.
“How long?” he asked.
“Dad—”
“Three years,” Emma said quietly.
Maxwell stammered. “This is a misunderstanding—”
“Save it,” the colonel snapped. “You’ve terrorized my daughter and granddaughter long enough.”
Maxwell’s family began protesting, but my father silenced them with a single glance. Major Reynolds laid a folder on the table. “We have the recordings. Medical files. Statements. She’s pressing charges.”
Maxwell slumped in his chair, defeated.
“You won’t hurt them again,” my father said, deadly calm.
Emma stepped beside me, tablet still clutched to her chest.
“You always said family protects family,” she whispered.
My father placed a hand on her shoulder. “And we do.”
Outside, police lights flickered red and blue through the window.
Inside, Maxwell finally realized—
Thanksgiving was over. The reckoning had begun.
