I soon realized that fairness, in Diane’s world, was a zero-sum game. She began planning the nursery in her house, referring to the guest room as “the baby’s quarters.” She bought boy’s clothing—tiny blue sailors’ suits and miniature loafers—and stockpiled them like a survivalist preparing for the end of the world. Trevor dismissed it. “Mom’s just… weird,” he’d say, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes avoiding mine. “She’s grieving the change. Just ignore her.”