What was supposed to be a peaceful Sunday dinner turned tense in seconds. The table was filled with the smell of roast chicken and laughter, mostly centered around my sister, Caroline, who boasted about her upcoming trip to Europe. I sat quietly beside my three-year-old daughter, Emma, helping her eat and keeping her entertained as the grown-ups ignored her. Then, in a moment of innocent curiosity, Emma reached for a small carrot from Caroline’s untouched plate — and everything changed. Caroline stood, slammed her plate to the floor, and screamed. Emma burst into tears while my mother coldly muttered that “some kids need to learn their place.”
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