I told myself patience was the price of stability. Ignore the insult. Save the dinner. Let Beatrix move the furniture. Let Thatcher talk about family heritage in rooms financed by my LLC.

Then Sabina got sick, and the illusion showed itself.

Stability isn’t marble flooring. It isn’t chandeliers, catered dinners, or a recognizable surname. Stability is knowing whether the adults around a child will choose her when doing so is inconvenient.

That night, they failed the only test that mattered.

“This house is mine,” I said in the hallway, so softly they both had to go still to hear me. “The deed. The company. The accounts that pay for these parties.

The twenty-five thousand dollars that funds this household every month. All of it belongs to me.”