The Niece Who Nuked My Figures

When I return to my hometown for the holidays, my brother-in-law, Tyler Atwood, has completely forgotten to hide his latest social media post from me.

"Ugh, Arlene is really vain! Her room is filled with useless things like figurines and dolls! They are such an eyesore!

"My daughter wants to play with them, and yet Arlene claims that those figurines are limited-edition. Since she refuses to let Celeste play with them, she can forget about keeping them!"

Tyler even starts chatting with the commenters in the comment section.

"Once we're done with Christmas dinner, I'll lock the door and let Celeste smash everything she sees there. If they break, I'll just claim that Celeste doesn't know any better. What, is Arlene going to take what a five-year-old does seriously?

"When the time comes, I'll just guilt-trip her and cry even louder. Let's see who my in-laws will help by then!"

As soon as I park the car in the courtyard, I hear loud smashing noises coming from the second floor.

My niece, Celeste Atwood, screams excitedly at the top of her lungs. "That meanie's things are all dead now! I'm going to break them all!"

That's when Tyler welcomes me at the door with a fake smile plastered on his face.

"You're back, Arlene! Celeste is helping you clean your room at the moment. She really is a nice kid. She knows that you like things clean, so she insists on cleaning your room for you."

Arlene's POV

A muffled thud of something heavy hitting the floor came from upstairs again, and the whole house seemed to shake along with it.

I dodged past my brother-in-law, Tyler Atwood, and rushed straight into the house.

Tyler reached out to block the doorway.

"Hey, what's wrong with you? You just got back and you're charging into the house without even saying hello to me? Have you no manners?"

I forcefully shoved his hand aside, causing him to stumble back a couple of steps.

"Arlene Manning, how dare you push me?"

I bounded up to the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time.

The door was slightly ajar.

The "Do Not Disturb" sign that had been hanging on the door handle was broken in two and discarded on the hallway carpet.

I pushed the door open to a room full of wreckage.

The entire wall-length acrylic display cabinet had been pushed over onto the floor. Its doors were shattered, and shards of glass covered the wooden floor.

The rare discontinued Labubu and limited-edition Zimomo figures that I'd spent five years collecting from all over the world were now all decapitated and dismembered. Some had their arms snapped off, while others had their faces stomped flat.

Singer from The Monster Forest Concert collection—a global limited edition of only ten pieces—was now being trampled underfoot by five-year-old Celeste Atwood. She was grinding it beneath her little leather shoes, pressing down hard on its vinyl face.

"Die! Die! Die!"

Still jumping up and down, Celeste grabbed another blind-box chase figure within reach and hurled it against the wall.

The plastic exploded with a bang, pieces scattering everywhere.

I felt my blood rush straight to my head, my eardrums pounding.

Celeste spotted me and stuck out her tongue.

"You meanie! Daddy said all this is junk, so I'm helping you throw out the trash!"

Tyler caught up. When he saw the wreckage strewn across the room, he clapped.

"Oh my, Celeste doesn't know her own strength. Arlene, look how hard Celeste has been working. Why, she's completely drenched in sweat."

He walked into the room, stepping over the shattered remains of my figurines, and scooped Celeste up. He then wiped her sweat away with his sleeve.

"Relax. So what if they're broken? They're just plastic junk anyway. I'll swing by The Dollar Store later and buy a whole new bunch for you."

I fixed my gaze on him. "The Dollar Store?"

Tyler rolled his eyes and started out of the room with Celeste in his arms.

"What? Is that not good enough for you? Arlene, you should be embarrassed of yourself—you're almost 30 years old and you're still playing with this kiddie crap. Celeste did you a favor by smashing them all. You should thank her for helping you beat your addiction."

Celeste draped herself over Tyler's shoulder and flipped me the middle finger.

"You're nothing but a broke loser."

I stepped forward and blocked the doorway. "You're not going anywhere."

Tyler stopped and hitched Celeste higher up on his hip.

"What do you think you're doing? Are you going to take a swing at us? Arlene, I'll have you know that Celeste is the only grandchild in this family. Mom and Dad will never forgive you if you lay a finger on her."

Downstairs, the security door swung open again.

My sister, Alison Manning, and our parents came in carrying Christmas supplies.

When she heard the commotion upstairs, Alison hollered from below, "What's all that racket? It's Christmas—can't a person get some peace and quiet?"

To Tyler, it was like a bugle sounding the charge. Still holding Celeste, he plopped himself down onto the debris-covered floor and just started wailing at the top of his lungs.

"Help! Arlene's going to beat Celeste to death! I can't go on living!"

Startled, Celeste started bawling along with him.

A chaotic stampede of footsteps surged up the stairs.

Alison was the first to charge in. The moment she saw Tyler and Celeste on the floor, her expression darkened.

She shoved me hard. My back slammed against the doorframe, and a searing pain shot through my shoulder blade.

"Arlene, have you lost your mind?"