Gretchen stepped closer, her face twisting into an ugly look of condescending pity that made my skin crawl.

“Claire, you’ve got two real, flesh-and-blood babies of your own lying in that crib right now, and you need to start putting your actual children first,” Gretchen whispered with poisonous certainty.

I stared at the woman who had eaten Sunday dinner with us for ten years, seeing her true, ugly nature laid bare for the very first time.

“There are three real children under this roof, Gretchen,” I said, every single syllable falling like lead.

“You know exactly what I mean, Claire, so quit playing the noble saint,” she snapped dismissively.