“Some people just get everything handed to them,” she whispered to my mother-in-law later that afternoon, loud enough for me to hear from the kitchen. “Must be nice to not even have to try. To just stumble into happiness.”

I tried to be empathetic. I knew her pain was real. But empathy became difficult the moment my daughter, Lily, took her first breath.

At the hospital, minutes after I had undergone an emergency C-section, Bridget swept into the recovery room. She didn’t ask how I was. She walked straight to the bassinet, her movements possessive and sharp.

“I am going to be her second mother,” she announced, her voice trembling with a strange, manic intensity. She looked around the room, challenging anyone to disagree. “Since I can’t have my own, I’ll pour all my love into this baby. She is my destiny.”