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.

Family visited occasionally. Suzanne critiqued the kitchen lighting and suggested Wendy would “need something bigger if you want that baby to have a proper start.” Cheryl walked through the nursery and tapped the dresser Mitchell had refinished with one acrylic nail and said, “Cute. Vintage budget aesthetic.” Philip mostly talked to Mitchell about taxes, interest rates, and whether he had “looked seriously into property instead of renting.”

Still, Wendy told herself this was tolerable. Families did not have to be soft to be useful. They did not have to be kind to show up. She had trained herself to read neglect as a manageable climate rather than a storm.

Then Cheryl got pregnant.

The timing was almost theatrical. Wendy was beginning to show. The anatomy scan had gone well. She had finally stopped bracing every time she used the bathroom, waiting for blood. Then on a muggy evening in July, Suzanne hosted a backyard barbecue “for no reason,” which should have been Wendy’s first clue that there was, in fact, a reason.