She finally glanced at the plate, her upper lip curling as though I’d served her roadkill. “Dad told you I eat protein pancakes. The mix is in my blue bag.”

I glanced toward the doorway. My husband, Robert, hovered just outside the kitchen, nervously tightening the belt of his terrycloth robe, refusing to meet my eyes, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the hallway rug.

“You wrote ‘no greasy food’ on your list,” I said, tapping the notebook paper she’d shoved into my hands at one in the morning. “Boiled eggs and dry toast aren’t greasy.”

Evan shuffled in behind her, looking far too comfortable in my home. He scratched his jaw. “Where’s the oat milk?”

“In the refrigerator.”

Madison crossed her arms, frowning. “You’re supposed to pour it for him. It’s on the list.”

I smiled — the same placid, immovable smile I’d worn the night before when they handed me their manifesto. Breakfast at six. Fresh sheets every Friday.

The guest bathroom sanitized nightly. Special meals prepared separately for Evan’s “sensitivities.” Their delicate clothes washed by hand. It was a chore list written not for a stepmother but for an unpaid, indentured servant.

But the list wasn’t even the worst part of my morning.

“Before we discuss milk,” I said, keeping my tone unnervingly light, “would you mind explaining what happened to my office?”

Robert’s head snapped up. “Your office?”

At 5:30 that morning, I’d gone down to my study — my sanctuary, where I run my freelance architectural consulting business — to grab a file. I’d opened the door to find my drafting table shoved against the wall, my filing cabinets relocated to the hallway, and my expensive ergonomic chair banished to the garage.