But recently, the air in my son’s home had thickened with a tension I recognized from waiting rooms—the heavy, suffocating pressure of unsaid things.

Two weeks ago, I visited them unannounced. The house was dark, save for the blue flicker of the television. Ethan was screaming—a high, thin sound that grated on the nerves. Michael was sitting in his armchair, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand.

“He’s crying again,” Michael muttered, not looking at me. His voice was slurry, thick with exhaustion and scotch. “Give me a break, kid.”

“I’m sorry, Carol,” Jennifer had rushed in from the kitchen, scooping the baby up, her eyes wide and darting. “Michael’s just… exhausted. Work stress.”