My son, Eli, was playing near the patio, close enough for me to keep an eye on him without hovering. He was laughing, chasing bubbles with the other kids, completely unaware of the tension that always seemed to linger when Lisa was around.
Then everything changed in a matter of seconds.
A loud crash. A sharp cry.
I turned instantly.
Eli was on the ground near the grill, his small body curled in on itself, screaming. One of the metal skewers had been knocked loose, and the hot coals had shifted. His arm was burned—badly.
I was moving before anyone else fully processed what had happened.
“Get water!” I snapped, already kneeling beside him.
He was shaking, terrified, his skin already reddening in a way no parent ever wants to see.
“Mom…” he choked out.
“I’ve got you,” I said, steady, even as my chest tightened.
Then Lisa’s voice cut through everything.
“Oh my God, this is such a mess,” she said, more annoyed than concerned. “Why wasn’t someone watching him?”
I ignored her.
“Call an ambulance,” I told the nearest adult.
But before anyone could move, Lisa stepped in front of me, arms crossed.
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