My wife – the woman who had raised Samuel with boundless love was being called unclean in her own home. Tears welled in Martha’s eyes, not from injury but from the sting of degradation. As she tried to gather the broken vase with trembling hands, I caught something chilling in Everly’s expression: satisfaction.

“Samuel,” I called firmly.

He appeared, uncomfortable but not surprised. That’s when I realized—this wasn’t new. He had been watching it happen.

“Dad,” he said weakly, “Everly’s just protective of the baby—”

“Samuel,” I cut him off. “We need to talk.”

Everly lifted her chin. “Actually, Steven, we were just saying it might be better if Martha stayed upstairs when the baby’s around. For hygiene reasons.”

Hygiene. About my wife. In our house. I looked at Samuel, waiting for him to object, to defend his mother. Instead, he whispered something about doing what was best for the baby. And in that moment, I knew this was not a single outburst. This was eight years of slow erosion, Martha being pushed aside in her own life while I failed to see it.