“Seven years of summer holidays, Thanksgiving weeks, and random spring breaks,” I said.

“Seven years of stocking the pantry with things you demanded and then refused to eat.”

“You never asked for money,” Juliette said, her voice rising.

“Dan told me you had plenty.”

I looked at Dan.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes.

He stared at the linoleum floor, his shoulders hunched.

“Dan was trying to keep the peace,” I said.

“But the peace has cost me my sanity, and it has cost us our savings.”

I reached onto the counter behind me and picked up a clean notepad and a pen I had left near the microwave.

“I have a promissory note,” I said.

“A what?” Juliette asked, her brow furrowing.

“A legally binding agreement,” I said, tapping the pen against the pad.

“You are going to sign it.”

“You are insane,” Juliette said.

“Maybe,” I said.

“But I am also the person holding your car keys.”

“What is the note for?” Dan asked, finally looking up.

His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles heavy beneath them.

“Seven years of expenses,” I said.