“And why, exactly, would Gretchen moving in mean our nine-year-old son had to be kicked out of his home?” I asked, folding my arms.

“Because this house only has three bedrooms, Claire, unless you want an elderly woman sleeping on the living room couch for six months,” he said, his voice climbing in frustration.

“Your mother is sixty-five and perfectly able to live in her own townhouse three miles down the road instead of taking over our son’s bedroom,” I snapped.

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re not the one looking at our sinking checking balance every single night while you sleep,” he fired back, his face darkening.

Those cruel words hit me like a slap, especially after I had spent the past month bleeding, pumping and nursing his two newborns around the clock.