He just offered to be the instrument that collected on it.

“The milk,” I said finally.

“Why warm milk with cinnamon?”

She wept harder.

“Because I knew it was the only thing you’d drink from me without asking a single question.”

That was the sentence that ended us.

Because that is the true shape of a family betrayal: the person who destroys you doesn’t have to break down your door.

They already have the keys to your kitchen.