took the stairs two at a time.

The nursery door was half open.

Lily was sitting on the floor near the changing table, one hand over her mouth, shoulders trembling.

Her hair was loose and tangled.

Her eyes were red and swollen.

My mother stood over the dresser with Noah’s diaper bag open beside her.

At first I thought she was packing for some errand.

Then I saw the folder.

Printed pages.

Handwritten notes.

Screenshots.

Dates.

Times.

I stepped into the room and my mother turned.

For one split second, her face hardened in a way I had never seen before.

Then the expression vanished, replaced by concern so smooth it would have fooled anyone who hadn’t seen the camera footage.

“Evan,” she said, like I had interrupted a normal conversation.

“You’re home early.”

I didn’t answer.

I crossed to the dresser and picked up the top page.

Reasons She Should Lose Him.

The words were written in my mother’s neat blue handwriting.

Underneath was a list.

Cries unpredictably.

Sleeps at odd hours.

Forgets meals.

Seems detached at times.

Overly emotional.

May pose risk if left unsupervised.

Each line twisted something ordinary and human into something dangerous.

Postpartum pain became instability.

Exhaustion became neglect.

Tears became evidence.

There was more.

A draft letter addressed to a family attorney.

Printouts of internet articles about postpartum psychosis, with sections highlighted that didn’t match Lily at all.

Screenshots of text messages where Lily had written things like I’m so tired I can’t think and I feel like I’m failing.

My mother had circled them in red.

At the bottom of the letter was a blank line.

Signature of concerned spouse.

My name was typed beneath it.

I looked at Lily.

She still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

My mother folded her hands and said, almost gently, “I was waiting for the right time to speak to you privately.

She needs rest, Evan.

Noah needs stability.

I’m trying to protect your son.”

That sentence broke whatever remained of my hesitation.

“You put your hands on her,” I said.

My mother blinked once.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw the footage.

I heard everything.”

The room changed.

Her voice dropped.

“Then you should also know she has not been honest with you.”

Lily flinched.

“Stop,” she whispered.

My mother ignored her.

“Before you decide who to believe, there’s something about your wife you were never supposed to find out.”

I almost laughed.

Not because anything was funny, but because the timing was so grotesque.

She had spent weeks terrorizing Lily, and now she was reaching for one more weapon.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

My mother looked at Lily and smiled with a kind of pity that made my skin crawl.

“Tell him.

Or should I?”

Lily finally looked up at me.

I had never seen that much defeat in her face.

“I had a panic attack in college,” she said.

Her voice shook.

“One.

After my dad left and my mom got sick.

I saw a counselor for a semester.

I told your mother because she kept asking if mental illness runs in my family and I thought she cared.”

My mother nodded as if the point had been proven.

“You left out the medication.”

Lily’s face flushed.

“It was for six months.

Eight years