The school secretary’s pen hovers over the form. 'Wait… didn’t your husband already register Lily?'\n\nMy breath snags. 'No. I’m doing it today.'\n\nShe frowns, clicks her mouse. 'Joseph Lowe, registered under Danielle Lowe. Same address as you, different unit number.'\n\nI laugh—sharp, brittle. 'That’s impossible. I’ve lived at 42 Crestwood Lane my whole marriage.'\n\nShe shows me the file: a marriage certificate dated two years before mine, a utility bill, a photo of Joe holding Lily at a park I know well. Him in the red shirt he wore the day I got my results back—the day I told him I couldn’t have kids.\n\nI drive home in a fog. Our house is quiet. Too quiet. Then I see it: his gym bag by the door, soaked in rain. Except it didn’t rain yesterday. And the zipper’s stained brown. Mud? Or something else?\n\nMy phone buzzes. Unknown number: You don’t belong in this family. Let her go.\n\nI should run. Call someone. But instead, I open the basement door. The light flickers. Something crumples below.\n\nThe stairs creak as I descend.\n\nA muffled sob echoes from the storage closet.\n\nI reach for the handle.