“And Margaret?”

“Margaret was standing near the stove,” I said.

My voice remained level, though my chest felt tight.

“She had been preparing a batch of preserves,” I continued.

“The burner was on high.”

“She picked up the pot of boiling syrup and oil.”

“Did she say anything before she threw it?” Vance asked.

“She said, ‘You don’t deserve this family,'” I testified.

“Then she threw it directly at my face.”

The court reporter’s fingers flew across the keys.

“I blocked it with my left arm,” I said.

“But the oil soaked through my sweater and hit my neck and shoulder.”

“Where was Ethan during this?” Vance asked.

“He was standing three feet away,” I said.

“Did he attempt to stop her?”

“No.”

“Did he attempt to help you after the oil was thrown?”

“No,” I said. “He took my phone from the counter so I couldn’t call nine-one-one.”

“He told Margaret they needed to clean up before the police arrived.”

A murmur ran through the gallery.

The judge tapped her gavel once, lightly.

“Your Honor,” Vance said, turning to the bench.