On a typical Tuesday evening, I walked into my in-laws’ house to find my children with completely empty plates, while their nieces and nephews were eating their third helping of lasagna from a “real” dinner set. Eighteen minutes later, I quietly decided I’d had enough of being their personal ATM, and that something in this family was about to go wrong in a way no one expected.

Mia nodded, but her eyes were full of doubt. Evan simply stared at his hands.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. “How long have they treated you differently when I’m gone?”

The children exchanged glances, that communication between siblings that happens without words.

“Always,” Mia finally said. “I guess so. But we thought maybe we were being too sensitive. That maybe we were imagining it.”

“Always.” The word echoed in my head as I turned and looked out the windshield at the dark park. “Always” meant that this wasn’t new. Always meant that it happened every time I took them to the nanny, at every Sunday dinner, at every holiday gathering, and that I was too blind to notice.

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