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.

I looked around the room again, and now I really noticed it. The way my children positioned themselves at the edge of everything, sitting on bar stools like guests instead of family. The way Payton’s children sprawled comfortably across the dining room table as if they owned the place. The way no one at that table seemed to think anything was wrong with the scene.

“What did everyone eat?” I asked, even though I knew the answer would destroy me.

“Grandma made lasagna,” Harper announced proudly from the table. “It’s absolutely delicious. She makes the best lasagna.”

I looked at my daughter.

“What did you eat?” I asked.

Mia hesitated, glancing at Addison before answering. That look told me everything I needed to know about the power dynamics in this house, about who my daughter had learned to obey.

“We weren’t that hungry,” she said finally.

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