“Give that back, Kassius,” she scolded, jumping to scramble at my arm as I held the letter far out of her reach.

“Oh, now you want it.” I kicked the door closed, my face grim and Marcus’s set to match.

“What have you done, Mom?” he asked, sounding exhausted.

“I’ve … done … nothing …” she said between hops, arms outstretched.

Marcus and I made eye contact, and with the slightest of nods, I grabbed Mom with my free arm and set the other in Marcus’s direction for the handoff.

He snatched the letter as Mom began to screech unintelligibly. I made a few words and phrases, including a variety of uses of don’t, grounded, your father, I didn’t, and don’t you dare. Otherwise, I couldn’t make anything out, just a garbled string of dissent by a seemingly mad woman.

With every word he read, Marcus’s face drew tighter. Our entire family flooded the entryway, asking questions and trying to figure out why Mom had turned into a howler monkey, but when Marcus lowered his hands and laid his cool eyes on Mom, the entire room went silent as a tomb.

“This is a cease and desist,” he said. “From Bower. They say that you, Mother, are in breach of contract.”

The boom of shouting was instantaneous, every mouth in the room on fire except for Marcus, Dad, and Mom, who went half-limp in my arms.

“Stop,” I finally shouted, loud enough that they actually listened, chests heaving and hands on their hips and glaring eyes on Mom.

I put her firmly on her feet and took a step back. She looked smaller, older than she had only a moment before, her blue eyes shimmering and chin bent and wobbling.

“You took out a contract with Bower?” I asked carefully, quietly.

“I had no choice,” she said resolutely, albeit with a weak undertone and a sniffle. “Things were in disrepair before you all came home. When I put out word that we were filling wholesale orders, Bower signed on with the promise to overpay. What was I supposed to do, refuse? We couldn’t afford to refuse, Bower or not.”

Marcus drew a long, loud breath through his nose, his gaze heavy on her. “Where is the contract?”

“In storage. Give me a second and I’ll get it.” She patted her pockets until the jingle of keys sounded, then headed out the front door.

We all shared a look, and I figured we all were imagining her running for the Christopher Street station.

“I’ll go,” Laney offered, heading out on Mom’s heels.

A collective sigh sounded before all our gazes turned to Dad.

His hand framed his chin, fingers testing the consistency of his snowy white stubble, his unfocused gaze on the parquet.

“You knew,” Marcus said.

A nod. “Not until after she signed the cursed thing, but yes. I knew.”