“That Money Belongs To The Family,” Dad Roared, Swinging The Metal Wrench Into My Face. My Jawbone Br0ke In Four Places, Teeth Scattering Across The Driveway. I Photographed Everything Before Losing Consciousness. The Craniofacial ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ Consortium Convened… “Fourteen Surgeons Reviewing Weapon ᴀssᴀᴜʟᴛ With Permanent Disfigurement – Aggravated Battery Documentation.”

My sister Melanie called me once to tell me that I was “destroying the family” by pressing charges, but I hung up on her without a second thought. My brother Justin showed up at the hospital looking ashamed, but he stayed long enough to bring me a milkshake and promise to testify.

The recovery was a brutal, slow process involving liquid diets, multiple surgeries, and the realization that my face would never look exactly the same again.

When the trial finally came around, I sat in the witness stand and looked directly at Raymond, who was wearing a cheap suit and a look of practiced innocence. His lawyer tried to claim it was an accident, a tragic family dispute that went too far, but the evidence was overwhelming.

The jury didn’t buy his story, and the judge sentenced him to fifteen years for aggravated assault and robbery.

A few months after the sentencing, I finally received the recovered money from the police evidence locker—exactly $1,847, still tucked in a plastic bag. I took it directly to the monument shop and ordered the most beautiful, solid gray granite stone they had in stock.