I would see a number that did not add up, and be told I had misread it.

I would notice a night that did not match the story, and be told I was imagining things.

I would feel, correctly, that something was deeply wrong in my own home, and be told, gently, patiently, relentlessly, that the wrongness was in me — that I was anxious, unstable, too emotional, not to be trusted with my own conclusions.

And the terrible thing about that kind of erosion is that it works.

Slowly, I had stopped trusting myself.