The sharp whistle of the referee pierced through the chilly autumn air, signaling the end of another soccer match. Lorraine Warren sat in the stands, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching as her daughter jogged off the field with the rest of the team. Her heart pounded in her chest, not with excitement, but with the familiar tension she always felt at her daughter’s games. The soccer field had become a place of both pride and dread for Lorraine. As much as she loved watching her daughter thrive as an athlete, the constant injuries were taking a toll.

Lorraine sighed, feeling the usual knot of worry tighten in her stomach. Her daughter was a natural on the field, no doubt about it—fast, agile, and unstoppable when it came to scoring goals. But she was also reckless, throwing herself into every tackle, every sprint, every leap, without a second thought for her own safety. And she was stubborn, just like her father, Ed. Once she set her mind to something, there was no turning back.

But Lorraine had had enough. She had already told her daughter after the last injury—an ugly sprain that left her limping for days—that if she got hurt again, she wouldn’t let her play. Not for a while, at least.

As the team huddled on the sidelines, Lorraine could tell something wasn’t right. Her daughter was holding her face, and one of the coaches was hovering nearby, his expression tense. Lorraine’s breath caught in her throat. Oh no.

She stood up, making her way down from the bleachers as quickly as she could. As she got closer, she saw it—her daughter’s nose, crooked and bleeding, the unmistakable sign of a break. There were bruises on her arms, scrapes on her knees. She looked like she had been in a fight, and in a way, she had.

Lorraine’s first reaction was fear, followed swiftly by anger. How many times had they warned her? How many times had she told her daughter to be careful, to think before throwing herself headfirst into a game?

But none of that mattered now. What mattered was that her.