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 could tell he wanted more.

Forgiveness, probably.

Reassurance.

Noah did not give it.

I was proud of him.

Ethan left.

The house felt strange without him.

Not peaceful.

Not yet.

Just quieter.

That afternoon, Noah and I went through his move-in list.

Twin XL sheets.

Laundry detergent.

Shower shoes.

Desk lamp.

Things his mother had already reminded him about five times.

We drove to a store and bought what he still needed.

At one point, we stood in an aisle arguing about whether he required two sets of sheets.

“You need two.”

“Why?”

“So you have one while you wash the other.”

“I can wash them and put them back.”

“You are eighteen. You’re going to forget your laundry in a washing machine for three hours.”

“That feels insulting.”

“It’s experience.”

We laughed.

Then I realized it was the first time I had laughed without thinking about Diane since dinner.