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.

Then I walked to the front closet.

Diane called after me.

“Where are you going?”

I took down her coat.

Her purse was on the entry bench.

I brought both into the dining room and placed them by the door.

“You have two minutes.”

Her mouth fell open.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

“You’re throwing your husband’s mother into the street?”

“You have a car and a house.”

“I’ve had wine!”

“You had half a glass more than an hour ago. If you believe you can’t drive safely, I’ll call you a car.”

“This is unbelievable.”

“You have ninety seconds.”

Diane looked at Ethan.

“Are you going to let her speak to me this way?”

Ethan looked trapped.

For years, I had felt sorry for him when he looked like that.

I did not anymore.

He was not trapped.

He was being asked to make a choice he had successfully avoided for years.