Everyone else in the room—Keith, his parents—cooed. They thought it was sweet, a healing balm for her infertility trauma. I thought it was terrifying. It felt less like a promise of love and more like a declaration of ownership.

The invasion began immediately. Bridget was at our doorstep every single morning. She treated me not as the mother, but as an obstacle—a wet nurse to be tolerated. She would snatch Lily from my arms the moment she walked in.

“Mommy looks tired,” she would say, her voice sickly sweet, even when I had slept eight hours and felt fine. “Mommy needs a break. Go away, Mommy.”

When I reached to take my child back, Bridget’s grip would tighten. Her knuckles would turn white against Lily’s onesie. “Don’t be selfish,” she’d hiss, her face inches from mine. “Lily needs to bond with her aunt, too. You can’t hoard her.”

Then, the “accidents” began.