At 35, I had a full-time job, a growing son, and most household responsibilities on my shoulders. Impressing Annabelle wasn’t a priority.

But hearing Dustin repeat her insults concerned me.

I pulled up a chair beside him.

“Listen, sweetheart. You shouldn’t have to hear people making fun of either parent.”

“Then why does Dad let her?”

I couldn’t explain Nigel’s behavior, but I could confront him.

After Dustin went to bed, I called Nigel.

“Annabelle needs to stop insulting me around Dustin.”

He sighed.

“Becca, she has a strange sense of humor.”

“Dustin isn’t finding it funny. He shouldn’t dread having dinner with you.”

After a pause, he replied.

“I’ll speak to her. Promise.”

I wanted to believe him.

Three days later, Annabelle approached me during school pickup. She’d brought sneakers Dustin had forgotten at his father’s house.

“Nigel mentioned you’re helping with the fall fair.”

“Dustin’s class has a pumpkin booth.”

“I thought I could buy decorations and help with the display.”

I hesitated, but Dustin brightened.

“Really? We could all help!”

Seeing his excitement, I agreed.

“All right. But the children’s decorations need to stay.”

“Of course, Becca.”

Annabelle glanced at my cardigan.

“I’ll make sure everything looks presentable.”

Despite her remark, I gave her a chance.

At the volunteer meeting, Annabelle arrived with photos of expensive decorations she’d ordered.

“You’re organizing the booth?” another parent asked.

“Pretty much,” Annabelle replied.

“We’re sharing the work,” I said. “I’m baking the cupcakes and helping with setup.”

She laughed.

“Of course. You’re handling the food, Becca. That’s very on-brand.”

Then she indicated the children’s handmade paper pumpkins.

“Those won’t match my decorations. We should leave them off.”

“No. The children made those.”

“They look cheap.”

“They’re made from construction paper, Annabelle. They’re staying.”

She dropped the subject.

On Saturday, Dustin and I baked pumpkin cupcakes.

He insisted on putting exactly seven chocolate chips on each.

“Four would be enough,” I told him.

“Seven looks better.”

I handed him the chocolate chips.

“Then you’d better get started.”