“I’m documenting your stress level,” Sylvia said.

“So I know when to step in and fix things.”

Ethan looked at the yellow paper, then turned his head to look at June, who was resting her face softly against my collarbone.

He ran his left hand straight through his brown hair, pushing it back off his forehead.

“I don’t need you to buy us breakfast, Mom,” Ethan said.

“I need you to go home.”