“You paid forty-five dollars for those soccer cleats last week and complained for twenty minutes,” I said.

“I’m offering you a clean slate,” Max said, pushing the envelope right into my palm.

“We don’t need to spend the next five years fighting over pennies.

I’m doing well, and I want the girls to see us getting along.”

“Since when do you care how things look to the girls?” I asked.

“I’ve always cared,” he said, stepping past me into the house without waiting to be invited.

“Where’s the duct tape?”