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…

“You have twenty-four hours to pack your things,” I repeated, louder this time, the rage finally bleeding through. “You are leaving this house.”

My dad laughed. It was a sharp, dismissive sound. “What the hell are you talking about? Is this a joke?”

“Do you think it’s a joke that you left your grandson locked in a car for two hours?” I stepped further into the room, my presence sucking the air out of the space. “Do you think it’s funny that he came home dehydrated and confused while you drank iced tea?”

The color drained from my mother’s face. It was the first time in years I had seen her look truly afraid.

“Is it true?” I demanded.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t even try to lie.

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