Chapter 4

The consequences began as small, insidious whispers. Richard started complaining of a constant, unquenchable thirst. He would drain glass after glass of water, only to be thirsty again minutes later. After a particularly indulgent meal of steak, potatoes loaded with sour cream, and a huge slice of pecan pie, he squinted at the television.

"Damn thing's going blurry," he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "They make these new TVs too complicated."

I knew exactly what it was. The classic symptoms of uncontrolled hyperglycemia. His body was screaming for help. He chose to ignore it. He asked Eleanor to bring him a can of ginger ale to "settle his stomach." She complied without question. I remained silent, sipping my unsweetened herbal tea. I was a passive observer to a slow-motion car crash.

The real conflict, the one that tested my resolve, came through my son, Ethan.

He was a sensitive boy, and at five years old, he was caught in the crossfire of our family's opposing food philosophies. I had taught him about "growing foods" and "sometimes foods." He understood that vegetables made him strong and too much sugar could make him feel sick.

We were in the garden one afternoon when Eleanor came out with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, still warm and gooey from the oven.

"Look what Grandma made for my favorite little man!" she cooed, holding the plate out to Ethan.

Ethan looked from the cookies to me. "Mommy says too many cookies aren't good for my tummy."

Eleanor's smile tightened. "Oh, don't be silly. A little treat won't hurt. Mommy is just too strict."

Before I could even respond, Richard appeared at the patio door, leaning heavily on the frame. His face was flushed.

"What is this nonsense?" he boomed, his voice raspy. "My grandson will eat what I give him! He's a Sterling, not some frail little rabbit. Give him the cookie!"

He lumbered over, took a cookie from the plate, and tried to shove it towards Ethan's mouth. "Eat it, boy. Be a man."

Ethan, scared by his grandfather's aggressive tone, shrank back and hid behind my legs. "No! I don't want it!"

Richard's face purpled with rage. It was the frustration of a man losing control, not just over his own body, but over his entire domain. His grandson, a child, was defying him.

"You see what you've done?" he snarled at me. "You're turning him against me! Filling his head with your weak-minded garbage!"

In my past life, I would have scooped Ethan up and engaged in a fierce, whispered argument with Richard, trying to shield my son while also placating the tyrant. It was an impossible, exhausting dance.

This time, I was a different choreographer.

I gently moved Ethan to my side and stood up, facing Richard with a calm, almost beatific smile.

"You're right, Richard. I'm sorry."

The apology shocked everyone into silence. Eleanor, David who had just walked out, and Richard all stared at me.

I turned to David. "Honey, can you take Ethan inside for a minute? I think a cartoon is on."

David, looking relieved to escape the confrontation, quickly guided a confused Ethan into the house.

I turned back to my father-in-law, my smile never wavering.

"You've had a long day. You're stressed. You shouldn't have to deal with arguments over a simple cookie." I picked one up from the plate myself and took a delicate bite. "It's delicious, Eleanor."

Then, I delivered the masterstroke.

"In fact," I said, raising my voice just enough for the household staff to hear. "Why don't we have that Black Forest cake from the bakery for dessert tonight? I think we all deserve a special treat. Especially Dad."

Richard' s anger dissipated, replaced by a look of triumphant satisfaction. He had won. He had put me in my place and was being rewarded for it.

He didn't realize that I was the one holding the shovel, encouraging him to dig his own grave a little bit faster. He thought he was winning a battle, but I was orchestrating the entire war.