**Title: “Secret in the Wall”**

That night, my family’s new house was brightly lit. The smell of wine, laughter, and melodious music—all blended together to create the perfect atmosphere of happiness that my mother had always dreamed of. But I knew clearly that in that house, everything was just a thin layer of paint hiding the long-standing decay.

I – **Lydia**, 32 years old, recently divorced and living with my little daughter, **Emily**, three years old. I went to the housewarming party of my mother and sister – **Monica**, who had just married a successful businessman with plenty of money and fame. Since my divorce, Monica often mocked me as “a faulty copy of the family”. I held back for my mother. But that night, she went too far.

In the middle of the party, while everyone was raising their glasses, Monica suddenly sneered, then loudly said:

— Does anyone know Lydia stole my wedding money? Ten thousand dollars!

The sound was like a knife cutting through the air. All eyes immediately turned to me. I stood there dumbfounded, not understanding what was going on.

— What? — I stammered. — What are you talking about?

Monica showed a bank statement, pointing to the withdrawal line two years ago – the day after her wedding.

— The account was withdrawn from the ATM near my old apartment. The police said it might be a relative. And I… am the only one who knows my brother-in-law’s backup password.

I was stunned. The password? The password that Monica herself showed me when she was drunk?

My mother looked at me silently. Her eyes did not have the slightest bit of trust.

— Lydia, is that right? — she asked.

I looked at my mother, my throat tightening. I couldn’t believe that after all I’d done for this family, she was still willing to believe Monica’s words just because she “had a rich husband.”

— No, Mom. Not me.

But Monica was too clever. She pulled out a USB stick and plugged it into the TV. The screen showed a security camera image: a woman in a black coat, my build, withdrawing money from an ATM.

Everyone was talking. I was shaking. I knew that figure really looked like me — but I also knew I hadn’t done it.

All I could say was:
— That’s not me.

Monica smiled triumphantly. My mother gave me a disappointed look. Then she said coldly:
— I’m ashamed to have a daughter like you, Lydia.

Emily — my daughter — was playing with her teddy bear in the corner of the house, looking at me with innocent, clueless eyes. I wanted to hug my child and leave, but my mother stood up, grabbing the baseball bat that was placed next to the sofa – a souvenir from my father when he was still alive.

— You dare lie to me?!

I only had time to say “Mom, stop!” before she swung the bat. The first blow hit my shoulder, the pain was so sharp that it numbed me. I fell down, trying to cover Emily, but the next blow missed her head. Blood splattered everywhere.

I screamed, hugging my child, trembling. People were screaming, Monica was screaming “Mom! Stop!”, but all to me was just an indeterminate buzzing sound.

In a panic, I jumped up, rushed to the wall, wanting to snatch the bat back. The impact made me dizzy, blood seeped out from my temple. But when I turned around — the sight left me speechless.

Emily was still lying there, but she didn’t cry. She opened her eyes wide and looked at me, then moved her lips slightly:
— Mom… don’t cry.

I quickly picked up my child and took him to the hospital. In my panic, I didn’t realize that his little hand was clutching something — a tiny metal bracelet.

A few hours later, the police arrived at the hospital. They asked me to stay to “clarify” the assault and “the money loss from years ago.” But then things took an unexpected turn.

The police said they had reanalyzed the camera footage Monica had shown. The person in the video — who did look like me — but there was one small detail: he was left-handed. I am right-handed.

An old police officer spoke slowly:
— We just received the results of the forensic examination: the fingerprints on the baseball bat with your child’s blood on it… matched a sample in the old file. Someone who was suspected of stealing a bank account two years ago. Her name was… Monica.

I was speechless.

They said Monica had transferred $10,000 from her husband’s account to her personal account, then blamed me to avoid detection. When she was investigated, she faked the video – combining me with footage from an old case.

But what shocked me was the next detail: the bracelet Emily was holding was Monica’s USB key, which contained all the evidence.

She saw Monica plug it into the TV and drop it, while I was arguing. Emily – a three-year-old who didn’t understand everything – just kept it because “she made her mother sad”.

I held her in my arms, tears streaming down my face.

A few days later, Monica was arrested. The police took me home to pack my things. I walked into the living room – where my blood was still on the wall, and on the wooden shelf, the old family photo was still there: my mother standing between us, smiling brightly.

I was about to turn away when I heard a small noise—a “crack” from behind the wall. The workers were removing the new paneling for repairs, and from inside, an old envelope fell out.

Inside was my father’s handwritten will.

“This house, and all the inheritance , will belong to the most honest son.”

Below were the signatures of my father and two witnesses — one of whom was… **Jezt Morrison**, his personal lawyer.

I understood everything.

Monica had known about the will all along. She had made up stories, wanting to push me away so she could take all the inheritance. My mother, out of love for her “successful” son, had become her tool.

I left that house silently, taking only Emily with me.

A year later, I bought that same house when it was foreclosed after the lawsuit. I was no longer angry. Only one thing still haunted me — sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I heard Emily whispering in the room:

Mom, I saw my grandmother. She said sorry…

I hugged her, tears streaming down my face.

Perhaps the deepest wounds were not in the head, not in the blood, but in the betrayal of trust. But it was from there that I learned to forgive — not for them, but for myself me.

And in the faint light of that dawn, I knew: the nightmare was finally over.