I stood with my brother on my mother's back porch. It was forty-five degrees out. He was holding a glass of wine. I said, "Grant. I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me finish." He said, "Okay." I said, "Your kids are the reason nobody visits anymore. I am not the only one who thinks this. I am the one who is telling you because I think you deserve to hear it from someone who loves you. Grandma stopped having Thanksgiving. Denise stopped having Christmas. Mom has started splitting up the family events because she can't handle hosting all of us at once anymore. It is not about scheduling. It is not about the kids being kids. It is about the fact that every single time we get together, something breaks, somebody bleeds, or Grandma leaves the room to cry in the bathroom. And you — you and Emma — have not once acknowledged it. You have not once apologized. You have not once asked us why we don't visit. And tonight your seven-year-old bit my eleven-year-old daughter hard enough to leave a mark, and you said 'try again later,' and I am done." I stopped. I was shaking. Grant did not say anything.