“All right, that’s more than enough of this, so, Austin, march yourself upstairs right now while your mother and I talk,” Peter ordered sternly.

“Sit back down in that chair, Peter, because you’re not ordering him anywhere until I get the truth,” I commanded, glaring at my husband with pure fury.

Peter stopped mid-step, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides as he looked down at me with tired, bloodshot eyes.

“Claire, you had major abdominal surgery four weeks ago, you’re running on fumes, and we can talk this through later tonight,” Peter argued.

“No, we’re having this conversation right here and right now, in front of the child whose whole world you’re trying to tear apart behind my back,” I shot back fiercely.