The drywall in the dining room of our Dallas estate was brand new, painted a sleek, muted beige that matched my stepmother’s taste. It smelled faintly of fresh plaster and fresh money. But to my three-year-old daughter, Lily, it was a target.

Lily: Grandmama! Grandmama in there!

She swung the plastic toy bat with surprising force. The hollow wood frame beneath the drywall gave off a soft, muffled thud. A tiny hairline fracture formed near the baseboard.

Vanessa: Mark! Stop her! She’s destroying the living room!

Vanessa rushed forward, her heels clicking sharp against the polished hardwood. Her hands were outstretched, her manicured nails practically clawing at the air to grab Lily away from the wall.

Mark: Lily, sweetie, put the bat down. What are you doing?

Lily: Grandmother is in there! She's sleeping under the house!

Vanessa: Mark, she’s losing her mind! Call 911 right now! Get her out of this house before she breaks something else!

My heart hammered against my ribs. My mother had gone missing three weeks ago. The police had searched her small apartment downtown, checked her bank accounts, and combed through the nearby parks. Nothing. Her cell phone had been turned off, her credit cards untouched. The police had quietly filed it away as a missing persons case involving an elderly woman who might have wandered off. But now, my toddler was screaming at a freshly finished wall in the middle of our family home.

Mark: Why are you so terrified, Vanessa? It’s just drywall.

Vanessa: I spent ten thousand dollars on this renovation last week! I won't let a toddler ruin my house! Call the police to take her to a doctor!

She lunged to grab Lily’s shoulder. I stepped between them, my palm striking Vanessa’s cheek with a sudden, loud crack that echoed through the high-ceilinged room.