I did not argue in that kitchen, and I did not cry. I drove my four hours home, and along the way I made a single phone call to my daughter Danielle, asking her to check something for me when Trevor was at work the next day. See, what Trevor had forgotten, in his smug little arithmetic, was that I had not arrived empty-handed two weeks earlier. I had brought things. Big things. And I had the receipts for every one of them tucked in my purse, right beside the space where his $890 had been.

The next morning, I sat at my own kitchen table and made my own itemized list, the way he had made his. The crib I had bought and paid to have delivered before the baby came: $740. The two weeks of groceries I had purchased with my own card, because their fridge was empty when I arrived: $610. The prescription I had covered when Danielle’s insurance lapsed: $180. The professional cleaning I had scheduled and paid for the day before I left, so they would not have to worry about it: $220. I added it all up, printed it neatly, and drove the four hours back. This time, I did not knock. Danielle let me in, because I had asked her to.