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.

That was the terrible part. Some ancient reflex in her still believed help would arrive if she needed it badly enough, but another older reflex knew better than to ask. She fed Paige in silence and listened to the house breathe around her, formal and indifferent.

Morning brought light through the curtains and the illusion of control. Wendy had dozed in fragments. Her medication schedule already felt slippery. Paige rooted against her chest, red-faced and impatient. Wendy had just managed to get the baby latched when the bedroom door burst open without a knock.

Suzanne stood in the doorway fully dressed, hair smooth, lipstick precise, expression already sharpened into decision. Wendy recognized that face from childhood. It was the face her mother wore when the outcome had been chosen before the conversation began.

“Wendy,” Suzanne said briskly. “You need to pack your things. Cheryl’s coming over today with baby Jaden, and she needs this room more than you do.”

For one blank second Wendy assumed she had misheard. “What?”

Suzanne stepped farther in. “Your sister’s on her way. She needs space. She needs quiet. She needs help. Go ahead and start packing.”