I was chopping vegetables when my four-year-old daughter

harden.

“You always were possessive,” she says. “You never wanted my help. You twist everything I do.”

“Quiet candy,” I say.

The words land between us.

Diane’s mouth closes.

Andrew looks from me to his mother.

“What?”

“That’s what Emma says you called them,” I tell Diane. “Quiet candy.”

Diane’s face pales under her powder.

“That is absurd.”

“Is it?” I ask. “Then continue reading …