She never asked for permission; she simply announced her plans. I’d get texts on Friday nights: “Pool party tomorrow at 1:00. Daniela is bringing three friends.” It was as if my backyard was her personal country club, and I was merely the groundskeeper.

I tried to set boundaries, gently mentioning that some weekends weren’t convenient or that David and I had plans of our own. My attempts were always met with a wounded look and a passive-aggressive comment about how selfish I was being. “It’s just a pool, Alisa,” she’d sigh. “My kids barely get to have any fun living in their small apartment.”