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.

But I knew Mia. I knew she was always hungry after camp and would immediately ask what was for dinner as soon as I picked her up. I knew she never said no to Grandma because Addison made exactly the kind of comforting meals my daughter loved.

“Actually, there wasn’t enough for everyone,” Addison interrupted smoothly, as if explaining something perfectly logical. “So I made them grilled cheese sandwiches earlier. They didn’t mind. Kids don’t need a full meal every time they’re here.”
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I got up and went to the kitchen counter, where a large glass lasagna dish sat, with at least six generous portions left. Enough to feed my kids twice. Enough to make it clear that Addison’s explanation was a lie. And she clearly didn’t care that I had the proof with my own eyes.

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