Before the last box came off the truck, Corey handed her a freshly cut key.

Within forty-eight hours the pop-ins were daily. I’d come home to a refrigerator restocked with brands I disliked. Furniture I’d placed had been moved.

The last straw came when I woke from a desperately needed nap after a night shift to the sound of scrubbing, walked out in my pajamas, and found Lorraine going at my stovetop with a wire brush.

“It was getting greasy, Danielle. Hygiene matters for the baby,” she said without looking up.

My hands shook. I demanded Corey get the key back. I cried. I told him I didn’t feel safe in my own home. He pointed at the stack of unsolicited nursery gifts in the spare room.

“Look at everything she’s doing for us.” There was resentment in his voice now, aimed at me. “She’s proven she’s trustworthy. You’re letting your hormones make you paranoid.”