Six months after our divorce, my ex-husband showed up at my door with his fiancée and a wedding invitation in hand—but the second he saw the newborn in my arms, all the color drained from his face, and the perfect life he thought he’d built started falling apart right in front of me.

Carol Collins stood outside in a tailored camel coat, holding an expensive gift basket wrapped in clear cellophane. Beside her was Robert, Ethan’s father, with an umbrella and the expression of a man who already knew this was a bad idea.

I opened the door with the chain on.

“Carol. Robert.”

“We came to see our grandson,” Carol said, as if announcing a reservation.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Then we’ll be quiet.”

Her tone made it obvious that quiet was not her intention.

I let them in because refusing a grandparent visit entirely would look unreasonable if this ever reached a court, and by then Catherine’s voice lived in my head like law.

Carol entered first, eyes sweeping the apartment in one cold, efficient glance—the rented floors, the smaller furniture, the drying laundry, the stack of burp cloths, the chipped mug by the sink. I could practically hear the silent accounting.

Mrs. Gable emerged from the kitchen and lowered her head. “Mrs. Collins.”

Of course she knew her.

Of course.

Carol placed the gift basket on the table. “For the baby.”

“Thank you.”

She moved toward the bassinet.

I stepped in front of it.

“Please don’t get too close. He’s premature.”