“You wrote down every time I called you from my desk,” Ethan said.

“I keep track of my son’s well-being,” Sylvia said.

“Because nobody else in your house seems to monitor how close you are to a breakdown.”

Ethan let go of the paper and took a step back toward the exam table.

“You are cataloging my calls,” Ethan said.

“I am documenting your stress level,” Sylvia said.

“So I know when to step in and fix things.”

Ethan looked at the yellow paper, then turned his head to look at June, who was softly resting her face against my collarbone.