It was the look she got whenever I so much as gestured at the idea that Liam and I were equally responsible for anything.

Whenever I mentioned, over the months since Hazel was born, that we were both tired, Brenda would somehow materialize with extra food for Liam, a plate of his favorite thing, as though exhaustion were a condition that afflicted only her son.

If I ever suggested that Liam handle a late-night feeding so I could sleep, she would tell me, gently, unarguably, that I was better at soothing the baby, that Hazel settled more easily for me, that it only made sense.

Every division of labor came pre-decided in her mind, and every one of them landed on me, and every time she dressed it up as a compliment or a practicality so that objecting would make me sound petty.