I came home from work and found my wife, who had given birth five days earlier, scrubbing the kitchen floor while my mother stood over her saying, “You live here, so you work.”

I sat in the parking lot for ten minutes, Emma sleeping in the backseat, trying to decide what to do.

I couldn’t take Emma to the house with my mother there. Not after what she’d done.

I called Sarah’s sister, Mia. She lived twenty minutes away, in a small apartment in Plano. She picked up on the first ring.

“Daniel?” she said, her voice tight. “The hospital called. Is Sarah okay?”

“She’s stable,” I said. “Mia, can you watch Emma for the night? I have to go to the house, and I don’t want her anywhere near my mom right now.”

“Of course,” she said immediately. “I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just get here safe.”

I drove to Mia’s, carrying Emma inside. She was still asleep, her tiny chest rising and falling, and Mia took her gently, pressing a kiss to her head.

“Go,” she said. “Handle it. We’ve got her.”

I nodded, too choked up to speak, and left.

The house was lit up like a Christmas tree when I pulled into the driveway.

I sat in the car for a minute, gathering my courage. This was my mother. The woman who’d raised me, who’d bandaged my scraped knees and come to every one of my baseball games. But the woman who’d stood over my bleeding wife five hours earlier wasn’t that person. Not anymore.

I opened the front door.

The smell of pot roast hit me—my favorite. My mother was standing by the stove, wearing an apron, like nothing had happened.

“Daniel,” she said, smiling. “Dinner’s almost ready. Sit down.”

I didn’t move.

“Where are your things?” I said.

Her smile faltered. “What?”

“Your clothes, your makeup, all the stuff you moved into the guest room,” I said. “Pack it. I want you out by morning.”

She turned off the stove, her hands resting on the counter.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I said. “You hurt Sarah. You put her in the hospital. You kept her from our crying baby. I don’t want you in this house ever again.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then her face crumpled.

She sat down at the kitchen table, putting her head in her hands, and started sobbing.

“I was only trying to help,” she cried. “I know I was hard on her, but I was just scared. You’re my only son, Daniel. I don’t want you to be stuck with a woman who can’t even take care of her own family.”

I felt a flicker of doubt. Just a flicker.

Then I remembered Sarah on the gurney, the blood on my shirt, the doctor saying fatal.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice hard. “Don’t play the victim with me. I saw what you did. Sarah told me what you said about taking Emma. That’s not helping. That’s abuse.”

She looked up, her eyes red. “She’s lying.”

“Why would she lie?” I said. “She almost died today. Because of you.”

She stood up, her tears drying up as fast as they’d come. The change was so fast it made my skin crawl.

“Because she’s manipulating you,” she said, her voice sharp. “She’s been doing it since the day you met her. She got pregnant on purpose to trap you, you know that? She doesn’t love you. She loves the house, the money, the idea of being a wife.”

I stared at her.

I’d never heard her say anything like this before. She’d always been polite to Sarah, if a little cold. I’d thought it was just nerves, that she’d warm up once the baby came.

“Get out,” I said.

“Daniel—”

“Get out!” I yelled, slamming my hand on the wall. “Or I’ll call the police and have you removed for trespassing. I swear to God, Mom, I will do it.”

We stared at each other for what felt like forever.

Then she grabbed her purse from the counter, her face like stone.

“You’ll regret this,” she said, walking toward the door. “When she leaves you, when she takes that baby and runs, don’t come crying to me. I tried to warn you.”

She slammed the door behind her.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

I walked through every room, checking the windows, the doors, making sure she was really gone. The guest room was still full of her things—her clothes hanging in the closet, her toothbrush in the bathroom, a framed photo of her and me when I was ten on the nightstand.

I grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and started throwing everything into it. Her sweaters, her perfume, her books. I didn’t care if I broke anything. I just wanted it gone.

When I got to the photo, I stopped.

I was ten years old, grinning with a missing front tooth, covered in mud after a Little League game. My mom was kneeling next to me, her arm around my shoulders, smiling like I was the best thing in the world.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I threw it in the bag, too.

I finished packing everything around midnight, dragging the bags out to the porch. I’d drop them off at her apartment tomorrow. I changed the locks on the front and back doors, testing each one twice to make sure they worked.

I sat on the couch, exhausted, and checked my phone.

A text from Sarah.

I miss you. Is she gone?

I typed back.

She’s gone. Changed the locks. Everything is safe now. I love you.

She texted back a heart emoji.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head back, and for the first time all day, I breathed.

It was over.

Or so I thought.

My phone buzzed again.

A text from an unknown number.

You think you can get rid of me that easily? That baby is my blood. I will not let a lazy, ungrateful girl like Sarah raise her.