At my parents’ anniversary my sister sneered, “We didn’t order for your son.” I stood up, cancelled their order, and put the whole bill on Dad’s tab. That night they called Child Protective Services — not knowing I already had one piece of evidence that would shatter their perfect image.

We didn’t order for your son,” my sister, Jill, said. The words were delivered with a casual, almost bored indifference as she pushed the communal bread basket toward my twelve-year-old, Mason. Across the table, her own two sons were already eagerly discussing which of the restaurant’s decadent, chocolate-lava desserts they would be having after their hundred-dollar steaks.