When I walked back into the bright kitchen, Peter was at the sink rinsing a plastic bottle, and Gretchen was sitting on the sofa holding both sleeping babies.

I slammed Austin’s blue spiral notebook down on the quartz island with a sharp slap that cracked off the high ceiling like a gunshot.

Peter flinched, cut off the running water with a jerk of his wrist and turned around with a defensive scowl.

“What’s that supposed to be, Claire?” he asked, drying his wet hands on a frayed dish towel.

“That’s a list your nine-year-old son wrote laying out every way he plans to go without clothes, food and love so his parents won’t throw him away,” I said, my voice shaking with fury.