Trevor’s next message dropped the wounded act. “That party matters to Owen. He’s been telling his whole class about it. You’re really going to embarrass an eight-year-old over a bike?” I set the phone down, watched Caleb pop a small jump at the end of the driveway, and picked it back up. “No one is embarrassing Owen,” I typed. “I’m declining to pay eight thousand nine hundred dollars for a party I never agreed was my responsibility, thrown by a family that told my son he doesn’t deserve a bike he paid for half of himself. If you want Owen to have a barbecue, Trevor, you can throw him one. You’re his father.” The typing bubble stuttered. Then: “You know money’s tight for me right now.” “I do,” I wrote. “You’ve told me for three years. Meanwhile I’ve paid for Owen’s birthdays, Mom’s anniversary dinner, the reunion, and now a graduation party for ninety people. At what point does ‘tight for you’ stop meaning ‘free for me’?”

He didn’t answer that. My mother called a third time and I finally picked up, because I knew she’d only escalate. “You take that video down right now,” she said, no hello. “The whole family is talking. You’re making us look cruel.” “I’m not making anyone look like anything, Mom,” I said. “I posted a video of my son being proud of himself. If that reads as cruel, you might want to ask why.” She switched tracks, the way she always did. “Caleb needs to learn to share. That’s all I was teaching him.” “Caleb shares constantly,” I said. “He shared until Owen broke his brakes and scratched his frame, and when he finally said ‘not today,’ you told him he didn’t deserve something he earned. That’s not a lesson about sharing. That’s a lesson that his boundaries don’t count. And I’m done letting anyone teach him that.”