"Because you went and spent two hundred dollars on him!" It came out of her at last, louder than either of them wanted, and they both froze and listened toward the living room. Paper ripping. Brielle's voice, saying something to her brother, bright and a little forced. Renee lowered her voice to a hiss. "We said sixty a kid. We agreed. I did sixty. I did it to the dollar. And you went behind my back and you did, what, two hundred? On a three-year-old? And she was going to come down those stairs and see his pile and her pile, Terry, and she was going to know. She counts. You don't think she counts? She counts everything. She would have known."
"Known what?"
"That he got more."
"He has gotten less," Terrence said, "every single day for four years."
She flinched. He saw it go into her like a nail.
"Don't," she said.
"No, I'm going to. I'm going to say it, because I should have said it a long time ago, and that's on me, I know it's on me. The pajamas. The swim class. His birthday. You gave her a party at the trampoline place, and he got a cupcake. A cupcake, Renee. At this table. You said he wouldn't know the difference."
"He didn't know the difference!"
"He knew. He knows." Terrence pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "He doesn't ask for anything. Did you ever notice that? Four years old and he doesn't ask. You know how many times he stood in front of that Santa at the Walgreens? Every time. Every time, since Halloween. And he never asked me for it one time. A kid doesn't learn that by accident."
Renee's face had gone very still. Her knuckles on the counter were pale.
"You think I don't know what I am?" she said quietly.
He took his hands down from his face.
"You think I don't know?" Her voice shook. "I know. I stood out there this morning and I took those tags off one at a time and I knew. You don't have to stand there and tell me. I know."