My eighteen-year-old brother reached for one piece of chicken at dinner, and my mother-in-law slapped him so hard his fork hit the plate. “You greedy little freeloader!” she screamed. My husband didn’t defend him. He looked at me and said, “Don’t make this worse.” Four years of keeping the peace ended right there—because Diane still believed she was standing in her son’s house.

I saw Ethan glance at me.

Not at his mother.

At me.

That was always the strange part.

When Diane said something rude, he watched my reaction as if I were the unstable element.

I said nothing.

We sat down.

For the first ten minutes, dinner was fine.

Noah told Ethan about orientation.

Ethan gave him advice about staying organized.

I served potatoes.

Diane criticized the amount of salt in the gravy.

Normal.

Then I put a chicken thigh on Noah’s plate.

Diane immediately spoke.

“That piece is for Ethan.”

I thought I had misheard her.

“What?”

“The thigh. Ethan likes dark meat.”

“There’s more chicken.”

“I only made enough for everybody.”

I looked at the platter.

There was plenty.

Noah picked up the piece with his fork.

“It’s okay. Ethan can have it.”

“Noah, eat your dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

He started moving the chicken back toward the serving platter.