Ethan came into the hall from the kitchen doorway carrying two taped cardboard boxes.

On top of the upper box lay my black laptop charger, which I had left on the kitchen desk two mornings ago before the argument over the keys started.

“I packed up your accounting ledgers from the desk,” Ethan said, setting the top box on the bottom stair.

Linda spun toward her son, her formal posture cracking right down the middle.

“Ethan,” Linda said, her voice cutting sharply across the hall.