“Austin, please look at your mom,” I asked gently, reaching out with my free hand to touch his wrist.

He raised his chin slowly, his hazel eyes clouded with a deep fear no child his age should ever have to carry.

“Who told you you weren’t allowed to stay here with us?” I asked, refusing to look away from him.

His eyes flew at once to the coffee maker, where his grandmother was quietly clearing her throat as she wiped up a drop of spilled milk.

Gretchen set her ceramic mug down on the laminate with an exaggerated tap and crossed her cardigan over her chest.

“Now, Claire, please don’t go blowing this out of proportion while you’re still weak and emotional,” Gretchen said with a heavy sigh.

“Then explain to me right this minute what my nine-year-old is talking about,” I demanded, a cold knot twisting deep in my stomach.

“We were just talking over a few sensible arrangements to help the household run smoothly, but nothing was officially decided,” Gretchen said smoothly.

“What kind of arrangement has my son putting his birthday savings on the kitchen table to buy himself time in his own home?” I pressed, staring right at her.

Peter dragged both palms down his face and let out a ragged breath as he leaned back against the kitchen cabinets.

“Mom just figured Austin might have a really nice time staying up with Aunt Joanie for a while until things calm down around here,” Peter admitted in a low voice.

Joanie was Gretchen’s younger sister, a quiet widow who lived in a little town outside Columbus, almost a four-hour drive from our suburban neighborhood outside Cincinnati.

Austin had always loved visiting his great-aunt Joanie on summer road trips because she made chocolate chip pancakes and handed him silver dollars, but that was a weekend visit, not an eviction.

“Since when did you and your mother decide our oldest boy was being sent off to live with Joanie?” I demanded, my voice climbing despite the newborn sleeping on my chest.