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Her eyes moved over the nursery the way they always moved over Mia’s house.
Too small.
Too plain.
Not clean enough.
Not grateful enough.
“Stop being dramatic,” Patricia added.
Mia put one hand under her stomach.
The baby shifted again, a slow roll that made Mia catch her breath.
“Put it back,” she said.
Evan finally looked up.
For a second, something like amusement crossed his face.
“Or what?” he asked.
Mia had heard that tone before.
It arrived whenever he wanted her to remember who had the louder family.
It arrived when Patricia criticized the way Mia folded laundry.
It arrived when Evan’s paycheck disappeared into truck payments, takeout, and whatever he called “helping out” his sister, while Mia’s remote bookkeeping job covered groceries, utilities, and the hospital payment plan.
It arrived when Mia asked why the joint account was short and Evan told her she was making herself anxious for no reason.
Mia had started taking screenshots.
At 6:42 the night before, she had taken one of the account balance.
At 7:03, Evan had told her she was imagining things.
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