You almost don’t answer, but curiosity gets there first.
Her voice is smaller now, stripped of gloss. “I moved out,” she says.
You lean against the kitchen counter, looking at the sink full of dishes and the drying rack of Carmen’s adaptive cups. “That was probably wise.”
“I didn’t know about any of it,” she says quickly. “I know people say that, but I really didn’t. He told me you were cruel. He said you controlled him through guilt and used his mom to keep him trapped.”
You let the silence stand there a moment.
Then you say, “That’s what men say when a woman’s labor has become so invisible they mistake it for furniture.”
She breathes out shakily.
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