Marisol stopped folding a navy sweater.

“No, Dorian.

I’m leaving because today forced me to see what happens every single time your mother crosses a line.

When she rearranged my father’s photographs, you said she was trying to help.

When she invited twelve relatives for Thanksgiving without asking, you said family should never need permission.

When she gave away the armchair from my father’s study because she thought it looked outdated, you said furniture wasn’t worth fighting over.” “We replaced the chair, Marisol.” “You replaced it with another chair,” she said, her voice dropping.

“You did not replace the one my father sat in every morning for twenty years.” His shoulders sank.