Introduction
She arrived with two suitcases and a pie, calling it a “temporary stay.” Seven weeks later, the pie was long gone—but she wasn’t. I tried to get along, really. I bit my tongue when she rearranged the kitchen “for better flow.” I forced a smile when she corrected the way I folded baby clothes. I even laughed when she joked that my belly looked “big enough for twins.”
“My Room” Became “Her Space”
From the guest room, she began calling the nursery “her space.” She bought another crib. She moved in her humidifier. Then one Thursday, she told me my snoring kept her up. I blinked and asked how she would know that from the guest room.
That’s when she looked straight at me and said: “Oh no, I swapped with Arlo. He needs better sleep for work.”
Nights on the Couch, Doors Shut
My husband—Arlo—was now sleeping in her room. I lay curled on the pullout couch, pregnancy aches gnawing at me, staring down the hallway. The nursery door clicked shut. The sound of the lock was soft but final.
I asked myself: Am I overreacting? Or am I being gaslit into thinking this is just hormones?
One Word That Froze Me
In the kitchen, I overheard her whispering to Arlo. My name came up. Then she said words that made my spine stiffen:
