I sat astonished, dry-mouthed, heart pounding and face flushed, sweating, casting about for an exit.  I could not win this round.  I had opened myself to them, and had been denounced and belittled and gaslighted.  “Well,” I tried, “my purpose was just to tell you how I am feeling, not to threaten to move out, no to threaten to move you out, and now I have told you, and you have told me how you feel, and you think I’m just crazy and depressed and over-sensitive, a worrier, anxious over nothing, because all this pressure is in my head—I have made it all up—you obviously don’t need me the way I thought you did—and I think we’ve talked enough for one night—never mind—and I think it’s time for ice cream and Star Trek.  Don’t you?”  I retreated—escaped—with my ice cream and my shame—for he had shamed me soundly—to my room—for two rerun episodes, good ones from season four, and I took a sleeping pill and went to bed.  The next morning, I cooked French toast, sprayed the weeds, pruned the bushes and trees, wiped the kitchen counters, took out the garbage, and shampooed the living room carpets.  We both acted as if nothing had happened.  For dinner I made my favorite Julia Childs chicken fondue with curry cream sauce over steamed basmati rice.  “This is sure a delicious dinner, Rog,” remarked Dad.  Mom particularly liked the sauce.