“Who told you we were poor?”

“Grandma Rosalind,” he admitted, in a small voice.

“She said you’re always counting pennies because you’re poor.

And angry all the time.”

It stung.

But I would not insult his grandmother in front of him — that was her weapon, and I would not pick it up.

Instead, that evening, I instructed my legal advocate to set firm boundaries around what could be said to my son during custody handoffs.

Protecting Toby, I had come to understand, did not mean preserving a pretty picture of a family for his sake.