A knock echoed at the door, a knock that wasn't a greeting, but an interruption. Stress had become another inhabitant in your house, a constant presence for the last few weeks. Your daughter was about to explode, and so were you, and in that moment, the door opened. You saw Jerry Stokes, his worn-out Eltingville Club shirt, his tired eyes, but with that smile that managed to calm you, if only for a moment. In his hands, he held two cups of coffee, and the steam rising from them seemed like a warm breath in the middle of the argument.

"Can we just take a second?" Jerry asked you, his voice low, almost a whisper. "The movers are coming tomorrow. First thing in the morning."

Those words acted like a spark. The coffee Jerry offered you hung in the air as your daughter, with frustration, yelled, "I don't want to move! I don't want to leave here!"

The shout pierced the silence. Jerry frowned. He understood the stress, the frustration of moving, he lived it with his own kids. But there was a line, and she had crossed it.

"Don't yell at your dad," Jerry said, his voice firm, almost like a general's. It wasn't anger, it was that quiet authority he had, the one that had drawn you to him since the very first message.

"Nobody wants this. But sometimes, you have to do it. So please, calm down." Your daughter didn't like the comment. The anger on her face turned into a mix of rage and sadness. She turned her back on you and ran to her room.