I let her go off to her bedroom, my lackluster reminder to brush her teeth following her from the dining table, down the hall, to the bathroom she has for herself now that the twins are of that age when separate peeing quarters become important. Patrick’s door doesn’t so much as squeak on its hinges when Sonia runs by it.

I take everything out on Steven. Maybe this isn’t the best parenting tactic, but I’m furious.

“What happened at Sonia’s school today, Steven?” I say after sending Sam and Leo off to the TV room. They’re eager to go, mostly because, without their older brother, they get a few minutes alone with the remote.

Steven shrugs but doesn’t turn from the sink.

“I’d like an answer, kiddo,” I say, and I press his shoulder, forcing him to turn.

It’s only now that I see the small pin on his collar, about a pinkie’s worth wide. Inside the silver circle, on a white field, is the single letter P in bright blue. I’ve seen this before.

The first time, it was on television during that ridiculous segment where three Bible-thumping women in twinsets tore Jackie Juarez to shreds. Not a week later, I saw it decorating one of Olivia King’s church dresses when she knocked on my door asking if I had an egg to spare.

It’s supposed to be a symbol of solidarity, I guess, this quiet blue P worn by both men and women now. Olivia’s daughter, Julia, has one, and sometimes I’ve seen it when I’ve been at the grocery store or at the dry cleaners picking up Patrick’s shirts. I ran into Dr. Claudia, my former gynecologist, in the post office, and even she had one, although I suspected her husband had more to do with Claudia’s choice of accessories than she herself did. I know the P stands for “Pure”—Pure Man, Pure Woman, Pure Child.

What I don’t know is why my own son is wearing this pin.

“When did you start this?” I say, fingering his collar.

Steven brushes my hand off as if it’s an annoying fly and returns to rinsing plates and loading the dishwasher. “Got it the other day. No big deal.”

“Got it? As in, what? It fell from the sky? You found it in a storm drain?”

No answer.

“You don’t just get these, Steven.”

He shoulders past me, pours himself a glass of milk from the fridge, and downs it. “Of course you don’t just get them, Mom. You have to earn them.”

“I see. And how does that happen?”

Another glass of milk disappears down Steven’s gullet.

“Save some for cereal tomorrow,” I say. “You’re not the only human in this house.”

“Maybe you should go out and get another carton, then. It’s your job, right?”