Diane’s head snapped toward him. “You will sit down.”
“No.”
The word came out small, but it stayed in the room.
Jonah’s mother crossed the kitchen and opened the laundry-room door.
The dryer was running. A basket of towels sat on the floor. On the wall above the machine hung a clock, exactly where Jonah had said nothing about it because nobody had asked.
His mother stepped inside.
There was no hidden object, no dramatic proof. Just an ordinary room.
That made Jonah’s chest tighten.
Diane could say he had imagined everything. She could say it was a place for chores because chores belonged near a washing machine. She could make the whole thing sound reasonable.
Then Jonah’s cousin came to the doorway.
“She makes him stand in here when she’s mad,” he said.
Diane’s voice sharpened. “That is enough.”
He flinched, but continued.
“She gives him extra jobs and tells him he should be grateful she lets him stay here.”
Jonah’s mother turned slowly.
Diane folded her arms. “I am teaching him responsibility. Your schedule is chaos, and somebody has to give him structure.”
“My schedule?”
“You work evenings. He comes here tired. He forgets things. He leaves cups in the sink. He needs consistency.”
Jonah watched his mother’s face.
She had been apologizing for her schedule for months. To teachers. To relatives. To Jonah. Every missed dinner and late pickup seemed to arrive with an apology attached.
Diane knew that.
Now she was using it like a handle.
Walt stepped into the hallway carrying Jonah’s untouched plate.
“What does a cup in the sink have to do with making him eat by the back door?”
Diane looked at him. “Dad, please don’t make this bigger than it is.”
Walt set the plate on the counter.
“I think we’ve all been helping you make it smaller.”
Nobody spoke.
Jonah’s mother looked at the handwritten chore list beneath his jacket.
“Are these all his?”
