The drive from the campsite to the lakeside resort we’d booked for a "recovery night" was brutal. The afternoon sun baked the car, and the lingering scent of stale pine and sweat clung to our skin. When we finally pulled up to the timber-framed lodge, Henry and I couldn't stop stealing loaded glances as we unloaded the trunk. He played the part of the helpful, dutiful stepfather perfectly, but the air between us was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Mom, suddenly energized by the promise of the resort’s high-speed Wi-Fi, didn't even wait to see the room. She had her laptop flipped open on a lobby table before...