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.

Ethan slept in the guest room that night.

Noah tried to sleep on the couch.

I would not let him.

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“You are starting college in two days. You are not sleeping on my couch because my husband has lost his mind.”

Despite everything, he laughed.

It lasted half a second.

Then he looked serious again.

“Claire, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“All this.”

“You didn’t do this.”

“I dropped the chicken.”

I stared at him.

“You dropped chicken.”

“I should’ve just eaten it.”

“Noah.”

“I should’ve just ignored her.”

“No.”

He looked down.

I sat beside him on the edge of the bed.

“You never have to let somebody hit you because you’re afraid defending yourself will inconvenience everyone else.”

He gave me a strange look.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Noah.”

He hesitated.

“Do you hear yourself?”

That hurt.