“So in your twisted mind, it’s perfectly fine to treat a child like trash as long as he doesn’t overhear you planning to get rid of him?” I asked, my hands shaking with rage.

Peter stepped in between us, raising both arms like a referee trying to pull two boxers apart.

“Both of you stop this right now, because the babies are screaming and the neighbors are going to hear us through the open windows,” Peter begged.

I drew a deep, shaky breath and looked at my tiny daughter crying in Gretchen’s arms before turning back to my husband.

“Where’s the rest of Austin’s stuff that was cleared off his bookshelf yesterday?” I asked, keeping my voice dangerously low.