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.

“Even if it means my parents lose their home?”

“Especially if it means that. Because maybe losing everything they built on our backs will teach them something about the consequences of their actions and respect.”
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For the first time since this nightmare began, Wyatt reached across the table and took my hand.
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