My son sobbed the entire drive to his grandmother’s house. “Daddy, please don’t leave me here.” My wife snapped, “You’re babying him.” I left him anyway. Three hours later, a neighbor called. “Your little boy ran to my house shaking. He’s hiding under my bed and won’t stop crying.”

Sue’s parenting stories were told as victories of discipline. She described withholding meals until Marsha “learned gratitude,” locking her in the basement when she “needed to think,” washing her mouth with soap for “smart talk.” She remembered these things fondly, almost proudly, and Marsha listened with a mixture of admiration and irritation that William never fully understood. When he once said, carefully, that some of those methods sounded abusive, Sue had stared at him long enough to make the room colder and said, “That word is thrown around by weak people who don’t understand what children become without consequences.”

Marsha had refused to discuss it on the drive home. Then, two days later, she accused him of insulting her family.