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 quietly walked the kids to the car, buckled them into their car seats, and got behind the wheel without starting the engine. My hands were shaking. My whole body was trembling.

In the rearview mirror, I saw both children staring out their windows, their faces carefully blank, the way babies learn not to cry. And then I knew exactly what I had to do.
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