posted the clip to a private group chat.

Dana laughed when he showed her.

“Delete it,” I said.

Connor rolled his eyes.

“Nobody even knows her.”

“She doesn’t want you posting her.

Delete it.”

He did, or at least appeared to.

Mom gave me a look across the table.

“You hover too much.”

“I’m asking him to respect her.”

“They’re cousins.

Let them work things out.”

That phrase would become important later.

Let them work things out.

It sounded neutral.

Reasonable even.

But somehow it was only used when Connor was the one causing harm.

The next morning Mara could not find her winter boots.

We searched the mudroom for ten minutes before discovering them behind the stacked firewood outside.

The insides were dusted with snow.

Connor said he had no idea how they got there.

Dana said one of the younger kids visiting next door might have moved them.

There were no younger kids visiting next door.

I should have packed our things then.

Instead, I dried Mara’s boots near the fireplace.

That afternoon, Connor took her tablet and changed the passcode.

Again, it was supposedly a joke.

Again, Dana told me I was overreacting.

Mom finally snapped, “Claire, if you keep turning every little thing into a crisis, nobody is going to enjoy being around you.”

I looked toward Mara.

She was sitting silently at the end of the sofa.

I wish I could say I immediately understood what my daughter needed.

I didn’t.

Years of conditioning are rarely dramatic from the inside.

They look like compromise.

Patience.

Choosing your battles.

So I told Mara we would go for hot chocolate in town later.

I thought removing her from the tension for an hour would help.

What she actually needed was for me to remove her completely.

The next evening, around five, everyone was preparing dinner.

Snow had started falling again.

Large flakes collected against the glass doors overlooking the lake.

Mara volunteered to collect gloves and hats left on the covered deck.

I was slicing vegetables when I heard a metallic crash.

Then came a strained cry.

I dropped the knife.

By the time I reached the door, Mara was on the boards near the railing.

Her knees were pulled toward her chest.

Her left hand cradled her right wrist.

Connor stood several feet away holding his phone.

“What happened?” I asked.

Mara tried to answer.

Connor spoke over her.

“She tried taking my phone.”

“I didn’t,” Mara said.

“He was recording me again.”

I knelt beside her.

“Can you move your fingers?”

She tried.

Her face tightened.

“It hurts.”

Mom appeared behind me.

She looked first at Connor.

“What happened?”

“She came at me because I had my phone out.”

Mara’s eyes widened.

“That’s not true.”

Mom sighed.

Not at Connor.

At Mara.

“Then apologize and let it go.”

I turned around, certain I had misunderstood.

“What?”

Mom folded her arms against the cold.

“Connor is the only grandson in this family.

Everyone is constantly correcting him.

Mara needs to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around her feelings.”

Mara stared at her grandmother.

“He pushed me.”

Mom’s expression did not change.

“And I’m sure you did something first.”

Dana came outside then, tying her hair back.

“What’s going on?”

Connor answered before anybody else could.