Kendra’s face went red, then white. My son explained that the apartment was leased in his name, the rent was his, and the utilities were his, yet she had set up the ledger in the first week and called it “fairness.” He had been too embarrassed to tell me, because he did not want me to think he had made a bad choice. The transfers were paying off her credit card, which she claimed was for groceries.

I did not shout. I asked Kendra, calmly, whether she wished to explain. She said that people who loved each other still needed boundaries. I agreed, and then I asked which boundary included taking his entire paycheck. She stared at the floor. My son took a long breath and told her that he was done, that she had until the end of the week to move out, and that the lease would remain in his name alone.

Kendra left on Saturday with two suitcases and a lot of muttering. My son and I cooked spaghetti that evening, standing side by side at the stove, and he laughed for the first time in months. I helped him close the shared account and filed the ledger in a drawer, in case anyone ever needed proof. He had lost weight and sleep, and I made him promise to call me at the first sign of trouble.

A year later, he met a kind nurse named Joy, who cooks for him because she wants to and eats whatever he makes in return. My refrigerator is always stocked when they visit. The cherry pie recipe hangs on their fridge now, in my handwriting, and the shelves behind it are full.