My hands were shaking so badly I almost spilled the coffee.

Marjorie — my mother-in-law — stood in the center of my brand-new dream kitchen like she’d been issued keys by the universe. She was sliding my labeled jars into new places with the casual confidence of someone rearranging her own home, not trespassing through mine. The quartz counters still smelled faintly of fresh sealant. I had picked every cabinet pull, every light fixture, every inch of that space with a kind of careful joy I hadn’t felt in years.

And she was undoing it like it was nothing.

Worse — she was wearing my gray cardigan. The one I’d “misplaced.” She had my satin scrunchie twisted into her hair, like it belonged there. Like she belonged there.

Ethan sat at the island scrolling on his phone. Not watching. Not noticing. Not reacting. His silence hung in the room like a verdict, and when I locked eyes with him, he gave me that drained, annoyed look — the one that made me feel like my discomfort was the problem, not the person actively claiming my life.

Marjorie finally turned toward me, resting her elbows on my counter as if she’d earned the right to lean there.

“We’re staying indefinitely,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Harold and I.”

My pulse thudded so loudly I could hear it in my ears. “Indefinitely,” I repeated, because sometimes you have to hear something twice before your brain accepts how insane it is.

“It only makes sense,” she continued, breezy. “Harold can’t manage the stairs at our place anymore. And you have all this space.”

I looked at Ethan. Straight at him. Waiting for the smallest sign — a raised brow, a weak protest, a “Mom, we’ll talk about this.”

Nothing. Not even an attempt.