When the last guest had gone, Mom sent Ethan and me to the kitchen. But the kitchen door doesn't close properly. It never has. Grandpa always meant to fix it.

So we heard everything.

“You let her treat our children like servants,” Mom said. Her voice wasn't loud. That made it worse.

“It wasn't like that,” Dad said. “Brittany just needed to feel at home. The kids were being difficult. They weren't welcoming.”

“Maddie was moved out of her bedroom so your wife could film face-cream videos. Ethan cleaned up dog mess while she filmed him for the internet. Your wife tried to sell my mother's piano. She threw my mother's quilt in the trash.”

“I didn't know about the quilt.”

“Because you didn't look, Steve. You never look.”

There was a long silence.

“And you told our daughter that if she told me, I'd lose my job,” Mom said. “And it'd be her fault.”

Dad didn't answer that one.

“Our daughter slept in a box room for four months, and she didn't say a word,” Mom said. “Because she was protecting me. She's sixteen. That was your job.”