My dad didn’t raise his voice.

He shifted Noah higher on his right shoulder, keeping his eyes on Linda while our eleven-month-old son babbled happily into his collar.

“She walked because there was no food left in your kitchen, Linda,” my dad said in his quiet, measured voice.

“And because you locked her car in the driveway.”

“It’s Ethan’s car,” Linda snapped, her arms crossing even tighter over her floral blouse.

“His name is on the registration.”