After having a new roof put on the house, and the old attic fan removed, Mom called an electrician to pull the absent fan’s switch and wiring. The job took three hours, for some reason, and involved no electrical parts. But the bill seemed exorbitant, and I believed the electrician had taken advantage of my aged parents. And so, contrary to my peacemaking avoidant nature, I called the company to complain, or rather, to “inquire.” The intransigent manager rebuffed my suggestion we had been overbilled, offering an incoherent rambling justification—and I gave up the fight. I reported the conversation to Dad who, to my surprise, grew cross. Pointing to himself, he proclaimed, “I will decide which battles I want to fight and which battles I do not want to fight.” The implication was perfectly clear: I was not to intervene uninvited in his affairs. Fair enough, I thought. I do not mean to fight his battles, and I do not want to fight his battles. In fact, I abhor contention, and have a hard enough time fighting my own battles. I appease and apologize to my adversary even as I timidly brandish the sword. I did explain to Dad, however, and trying not to sound defensive, that I am here to help him and Mom—that is my purpose—and that I intend to say something when I see people taking advantage of them. Loath to fight, yet I will defend my family. Neither of us said another word about the subject. But I sensed the boundaries had shifted and resettled, appropriately.