My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

Her hand struck my face with sharp precision, the force snapping my head to the side and filling my mouth with a metallic taste.

Before I could react, she seized my hair.

Her grip was firm, deliberate—not the chaos of lost control, but something far more calculated.

She yanked me downward and slammed my forehead against the polished edge of one of the coffins.

Pain exploded through me like a blinding flash.

My vision blurred. My head rang. My knees weakened.

Then I felt her breath close to my ear, her voice low and venomous.