My Nephew Broke My Nose—Then The Camera Exposed Why He Aimed

My nephew did not accidentally throw a baseball into my face.

Jet planted both feet on my mother’s lawn, adjusted his grip, looked toward his mother, and waited. Valora gave him the smallest nod. Then the nine-year-old turned his shoulder and threw directly at me.

The ball struck the bridge of my nose before I could raise my hands.

Pain flashed white behind my eyes. I stumbled into a patio chair, then dropped to one knee as warm blood ran over my lips and onto the front of my floral blouse. Around me, the backyard barbecue went silent. Grill smoke drifted beneath the umbrella table. Paper plates sat forgotten in people’s hands.

Jet lowered his throwing arm.

He smiled.

Valora laughed first.

“It was cute mischief.”

My name is Marjorie Simmons. I was forty-two years old, and I had spent most of my life learning how quickly my family could turn someone else’s cruelty into my personality flaw.

I pressed one hand beneath my nose and looked at my sister.

“He aimed at me.”

“He’s nine,” Valora replied. “Don’t make this weird.”

My mother, Isolda, approached with a napkin in one hand and her wine glass in the other. She dabbed at my face as if cleaning sauce from a child.

“Let it go, Marjorie.”

My father, Harlon, stood near the grill. Our eyes met, but he looked away.

No one asked Jet to apologize.

No one took away the bucket of baseballs beside him.

Valora raised her phone again. Jet reenacted the throw for her livestream, winding his arm back while she laughed behind the camera. That was when I noticed the small security camera above the glass patio door.

Its green light was on.

Ms. Simone Avery appeared behind the glass carrying a tablet. She was an attorney and financial representative who had come to collect my mother’s annual trust records. She stopped when she saw the blood beneath my nose.

I looked from her to the camera, then back to Valora.

“You all saw it,” I said.

Valora’s smile thinned.