I was struggling to walk home with my eleven-month-old baby balanced on my hip, my i:nj:ured leg aching with every step and heavy grocery bags digging into my fingers, when my father suddenly pulled his car alongside me. He lowered the window and asked, “Sweetheart, where’s your car?” When I confessed that my mother-in-law had confiscated it because she believed I wasn’t worthy of driving, his expression turned ice-cold. He opened the passenger door and said quietly, “Get in, honey. Tonight, we’re putting an end to this.”

Linda stared at all three men.

“So now everyone is against me?”

“No,” Dad replied. “Camila is making decisions about her own life. You don’t have to agree with them.”

Linda looked toward the four-star general she’d been so anxious to impress.

“Surely you understand that parents deserve respect.”

“I do,” Dad said. “But respect doesn’t mean controlling another adult.”

She had no answer.

I walked into the bedroom and gathered the last of Noah’s clothes. Ethan followed with a cardboard box, carefully packing the books and work materials I’d left on the dresser.

For several minutes, we worked without speaking.

Then he said, “I found a two-bedroom apartment near the warehouse. The landlord approved my application this morning.”

I stopped folding.

“That’s good.”

“I’ll move in next week. There’s a room for Noah, and I’ll make sure everything he needs is there.”