My 8-year-old son came home, hugged me, and whispered, “They ate at a restaurant while I waited in the car for two hours.” I didn’t ask any questions. I simply grabbed my keys, drove to my parents’ house, walked in, and without hesitation, I did this…

My mother was in the living room, folding a basket of warm, fluffy towels. My father was reclining in his leather armchair, a glass of condensation-slicked iced tea in his hand. The TV was murmuring in the background, some game show where people won money for answering trivia.

They looked up as I entered. They didn’t even look guilty. They looked comfortable.

“Hey, you’re here early,” my dad said, taking a sip of his tea. “Ethan get home okay?”

I stood in the entryway, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I wasn’t sure if I was going to scream or vomit. The image of my son, sweating and alone in a stifling car while they sat in air-conditioned comfort, flashed in my mind.

“You have twenty-four hours,” I said. My voice sounded foreign, like it was coming from underwater.

My mom paused, a towel mid-fold. “What?”

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