My 8-year-old proudly gave my moth....

"Megan," he started.
I turned so fast the spoon clattered into the sink.
"She tore up Ella's certificate," I said. "In front of everyone. You stood there."
He flinched.
"I know."
"No," I said. "You watched. Ella looked at you. I looked at you. And you did nothing."
He sank into a chair like his legs had given out.
"I froze," he whispered. "Like I always freeze."
The cocoa began to bubble behind me, too hot, too fast.
Eric covered his face with both hands.
"She used to do it to me," he said.
The room changed.
I did not speak.
"When I got good grades, she told me to stop showing off because Melissa would feel bad," he said. "When I used big words, she said I was trying to sound better than people. I brought home an award once, and she told me to put it away before company came."
His voice cracked.
"I thought she was keeping me humble. Tonight I realized she was teaching me to shrink."
Down the hall, the movie hummed.
Ella did not laugh once.
Eric stood up so suddenly the chair jumped back.
"I'm done," he said.
He walked into the office.
I followed.
His laptop opened.
Bank account.
Transfers.
Diane's name appeared again and again.
Utilities.
Credit card.
Emergency help.
Melissa support.
All those quiet payments made from guilt, habit, and old fear.
Eric clicked the first recurring transfer.
Cancel.
Confirm.
Then another.
Cancel.
Confirm.
"I've been paying her to treat our kids like they're beneath her," he said.
"Eric," I whispered. "Are you sure?"
He did not look away from the screen.
"I should have done this years ago."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Each one sounded like a cord being cut.
Then his phone buzzed on the desk.
The screen lit up with one name.
Diane.