When I arrived at the peak, Mother was making the Thanksgiving

meal. The large oak table was covered with jars of tincture and vials of
essential oil, which I cleared away. Charles was coming for dinner.

Shawn was in a mood. He sat on a bench at the table, watching me
gather the bottles and hide them. I’d washed Mother’s china, which
had never been used, and I began laying it out, eyeing the distance
between each plate and knife.

Shawn resented my making a fuss. “It’s just Charles,” he said. “His
standards aren’t that high. He’s with you, after all.”

I fetched glasses. When I put one in front of him, Shawn jabbed a
finger into my ribs, digging hard. “Don’t touch me!” I shrieked. Then
the room turned upside down. My feet were knocked out from under
me and I was swept into the living room, just out of Mother’s sight.

Shawn turned me onto my back and sat on my stomach, pinning my
arms at my sides with his knees. The shock of his weight forced the
breath from my chest. He pressed his forearm into my windpipe. I
sputtered, trying to gulp enough air to shout, but the airway was
blocked.

“When you act like a child, you force me to treat you like one.”
Shawn said this loudly, he almost shouted it. He was saying it to me,
but he was not saying it for me. He was saying it for Mother, to define
the moment: I was a misbehaving child; he was setting the child right.
The pressure on my windpipe eased and I felt a delicious fullness in my
lungs. He knew I would not call out.

“Knock it off,” Mother hollered from the kitchen, though I wasn’t
sure whether she meant Shawn or me.