Chapter 3

I had barely stepped through the front door with Camille when Klara pushed her way inside.

Neville had long since registered her fingerprints in our smart lock, so she let herself in as though she belonged there.

Carrying a stack of case files, she cheerfully slipped into the guest slippers she kept at our house.

"Hey, Rita!" She greeted me smoothly. "Mr. Murphy said he left a few files at the firm, so I stopped by to pick them up on my way."

Without asking for permission, she picked up Neville's mug, poured herself a glass of water, and took a leisurely sip. "Accompanying him to that early childhood center today totally wore me out!"

Neville walked in right behind her, as if her presence in our home were the most natural thing in the world. I picked up Camille's torn picture book, crossed the room, and slammed it onto the coffee table in front of him.

"So, this is what you meant by being busy?" I demanded, pointing at the ripped pages. "Because you refused to show up, Camille's classmates tore her book apart. And where were you? Putting on a show for someone else's nephew?"

Neville frowned as he took the mug from Klara's hands.

"That was an important networking opportunity with a major client," he replied defensively. "Klara's sister is one of our firm's key financial backers.

"It was business networking, so it didn't violate our household rules. As for Camille's torn book, that's your responsibility. You should have taught her how to manage her emotions instead of blaming me for everything."

As always, he found a way to shift every bit of blame onto me.

The sheer absurdity of it all made everything feel meaningless. Instead of arguing with him, I crouched down and silently gathered the torn scraps of paper from the floor.

Then I took out a glue stick and began painstakingly piecing the pages back together, one strip at a time.

Neville apparently assumed I was giving him the cold shoulder again. His expression darkened as he walked over to the wish jar and pulled out several blank slips of paper.

"To prevent you from throwing tantrums over things like this again, I'm reducing your monthly draw allowance from three times to just once."

Standing beside him, Klara covered her mouth and giggled.

"Hasn't Rita drawn her slip for this month yet? Why don't I draw one for her? Let's see if I have better luck."

Before I could say anything, she reached into the glass jar, swirled her hand around, and pulled out a slip. "Oh, my! Look at that! I drew Cook Dinner!"

Then she turned to me with an exaggerated sigh. "Fair is fair, right? Mr. Murphy said he's been craving the food you make."

They were using my wish slip to make me wait on them hand and foot. But I didn't even bother looking at either of them.

Instead, I tightened the cap on the glue stick, picked up Camille, and grabbed our jackets from the entryway rack.

"Come on, sweetheart. I'm taking you out for dinner."

Before leaving, I pulled a thick black marker from my bag and drew a firm line through the Monthly Rules column on the foyer board.

...

The following morning, my mother-in-law, Maeve Murphy, showed up at our doorstep carrying a bag of discounted vegetables. The moment she stepped inside, she began complaining.

"Those expensive asthma medications are a complete waste of money! I got some home remedies from an old woman at church. Just mix it into Camille's oatmeal, and it will work ten times better than those prescriptions!"

Rather than argue with her about the dangers of giving a child unverified remedies, I took the bottle from her and tossed it straight into the trash.

Maeve's face immediately fell. She pulled out her phone and called Neville to complain, and when he returned home that evening, he didn't reprimand his mother.

Instead, he turned to me and issued an order.

"My mom has a lot of cardboard and other odds and ends with nowhere to store them. Clear out the second bedroom for her."

But that was Camille's bedroom.

I reasoned, "Cardboard can collect moisture and grow mold. Camille's respiratory system can't handle that kind of environment."

He was unimpressed. "Stop using the kid as an excuse. Who pays the mortgage on this house?"

Knowing that arguing with him would get me nowhere, I decided not to engage in another shouting match. Camille's health and safety mattered more than winning an argument with him.

Instead, I retrieved her emergency first-aid kit, which contained the fast-acting medication she needed during a severe asthma attack.

Because the medication was small and could easily be overlooked in an emergency, I had deliberately stored it in a bright red box so I could find it quickly.

Then I dragged a chair into the corner of the living room and placed the kit on the highest shelf of the storage cabinet, where it would be out of the way but still accessible to me.