Just when I thought I had finally gotten the upper hand, she snatched a fork from the table and, in one swift motion, slashed it down her own face.
Gasps echoed around the table.
Blood streamed down from the scratches she left on her cheeks.
Through sobs, she cried out again, her voice trembling with fear, “Daddy… my face… I can’t stream for those nice uncles anymore… please stop hitting me. I’ll be good, I promise…”
She was doing it again, framing me.
Naomi stood up so fast that her chair nearly toppled over. Without hesitation, she slapped me across the face.
“What the hell is going on?!” she shouted. “You pushed her this far?!”
My in-laws were stunned and heartbroken, but they still tried to calm Naomi down.
Through broken sobs, our daughter explained her “side of the story.”
Naomi grabbed my phone to find proof—whatever “evidence” our daughter was talking about.
I wasn’t worried. I had already checked my phone earlier. There was nothing there.
But as she scrolled through my photo gallery, her expression grew darker and darker.
Her breathing turned ragged. She looked like she was about to explode.
My in-laws rushed over to see what was going on.