Reflex had me bristle. Ethan had been my easy boy, the one who put the groceries away without being asked and hugged me nightly until he was taller than my shoulder. But there was a weariness on her face that didn’t look like theatrics. She said he had a temper. Not shouting once in a blue moon. Sharp, private, controlled like a knife. She said he chipped at her—at her choices, her friends, her clothes—until she felt smaller than the space she took up.

I left with a knot in my stomach and ears ringing. After that, I watched him with new eyes. How often he cut her off mid-sentence. The “jokes” aimed just below the belt. The way her shoulders curved inward when he spoke.

One evening I arrived with a gift and paused at their door. Ethan’s voice was raised, not loud enough to wake the street but hot enough to scorch. Clara’s muffled crying slipped through the crack. When he opened up, his face was the color of a storm. “Mom!” he said, bright as a game-show host. Behind him, Clara’s mascara smudged like bruises she’d tried to wipe away. She gave me the smallest nod, a flicker of please.

I talked to Ethan the next day about gentleness, about partnership. He rolled his eyes. “She’s dramatic. You know how sensitive she is.” Something cold slid through me.