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 turned the key in the ignition but didn’t put the car in gear. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. In the rearview mirror, I saw both children staring out their windows, their faces carefully blank, the way children learn to do when they try not to let adults see them cry.

The silence in the car felt heavy, oppressive, as if a physical weight were pressing down on all three of us. I should have said something comforting, something that would make everything right. But my throat was tight, and I couldn’t find the words that weren’t lies.

Finally, I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. The house was visible in the rearview mirror, warm light streaming through the windows. It looked exactly like a home where families gather and children are loved. From the outside, the illusion was perfect.

We were three blocks away when Mia spoke.

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