Linda stiffened behind me. She hadn’t left the stove on. The igniter on the front burner had been faulty — a mechanical issue I’d fixed myself two weeks earlier.

Ethan knew that. He was weaponizing a lie to gaslight his own mother out of her home.

“So your solution to this manufactured dementia,” I said, my voice dropping an octave, “was to lock an elderly woman out in a freezing rainstorm, make her drop her heart medication in the mud, and drink my anniversary wine while you threw her family heirlooms into a garbage box?”

Ashley rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Tom. Don’t be dramatic. She was under an awning. We’re thinking about the future. You and Linda can take the guest room downstairs until we find a suitable assisted living facility for you both.

We’re trying to help.”

We’re trying to help.