My parents kicked me out one day after my C-section—with my newborn in my arms. Then my husband pulled up, looked at my face, and made one phone call that changed everything.

Suzanne opened the front door before they reached it. Wendy had expected at least a smile directed toward the baby.

Instead her mother glanced at the car seat and said, “She’s crying already? You know I need sleep.”

Paige was not crying. She stirred once, made a noise no louder than a kitten, and resettled.

Wendy blinked, too tired to process the comment properly. “She’s asleep,” she said.

Suzanne waved that off as if facts were a matter of tone. “Well. Try to keep her that way.”

Inside, Philip did not get out of his recliner. Golf murmured from the television, commentators discussing wind conditions and green speeds as if the room did not contain a woman who had been cut open two days earlier and the newborn granddaughter he had claimed to be excited about. He glanced at Wendy, then at the baby, then back at the screen. “Hey,” he said, which was both greeting and limit.