I Came Home From the Hospital Unable to Walk Without Help. My Husband Said He Needed “Space”—Then Our Four-Year-Old Daughter Told Me His Suitcases Had Been Gone for a Week.

The first sign that Adrian Cole had already left me was not an empty closet.

It was my daughter’s yellow toothbrush.

I noticed it because it was sitting in a plastic travel cup beside the kitchen sink when Adrian brought me home from the hospital.

Lily’s toothbrush never left the upstairs bathroom.

She was four years old and fiercely territorial about it because a cartoon sun was printed on the handle.

Yet there it was.

Toothbrush.

Tiny tube of strawberry toothpaste.

Her purple hairbrush.

Three things arranged beside the sink as if someone had just returned from a trip.

I stared at them from the wheelchair.

“Why are Lily’s things down here?”

Adrian stopped behind me.

Only for a second.

Then he pushed the chair forward.

“Mom had her overnight.”

“Your mother lives twelve minutes away.”

“She still needs a toothbrush.”

Something about his voice bothered me.

Too fast.

Too prepared.

But my leg hurt.

My ribs hurt.

Everything hurt.

Three days earlier, I had been driving home through Bellmere when a delivery truck ran a red light.

There was nothing cinematic about it.

No slow-motion realization.

Just the violent sound of metal, an airbag exploding into my face and a pain so intense I remember thinking:

So this is what bones sound like when they break.

I woke in the hospital with a fractured left leg, two cracked ribs, a concussion and instructions that used the phrase limited weight bearing so often I began to hate it personally.

The surgeon told me I was fortunate.

I understood what he meant.

I was alive.

No internal bleeding.

No spinal damage.

But fortunate did not feel like the right word when I needed a nurse to help me shower.

My biggest comfort was that I had Adrian.

Eight years of marriage.

A four-year-old daughter.

A house on Cedarbrook Lane with uneven floors and a backyard Lily considered her private kingdom.

Adrian could be disorganized.

Avoid conflict.

Call his mother too much.

But he was my husband.

Or so I believed.

The morning I was discharged, I called him twice before he answered.

“They say I can leave around eleven.”

“Okay.”

“Okay meaning you’re coming?”

“Yeah.”

There was a pause.

“Mom’s helping with Lily.”

Of course she was.

Margaret Cole had entered every family emergency with the enthusiasm of someone being handed a management position.

When Lily was born, Margaret reorganized my kitchen while I was still in the hospital.

When we bought the Cedarbrook Lane house, she brought paint samples we had not requested.

When Adrian and I argued, somehow Margaret knew the details within twenty-four hours.

She called it being close.

I called it exhausting.

Still, I was injured.

I needed help.

So when Adrian said his mother had been staying at our house, I swallowed my annoyance.

“Tell her thank you.”

“Sure.”

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

Silence.

Then:

“Just tired.”

I should have listened to the silence more than the answer.

The ride home was uncomfortable.

Every pothole felt personal.

Adrian drove with both hands locked around the steering wheel.

Usually he complained about traffic.

Not that day.

I asked about Lily.

“Fine.”

“Did she sleep?”

“Mostly.”

“Did you get my prescriptions?”

“Mom did.”

“Did you bring the shower chair upstairs?”

“Claire.”

“What?”

“Can we not do twenty questions right now?”

I stared at him.

“I’ve been in a hospital for three days.”

“I know.”

“I’m trying to understand what I’m coming home to.”

He exhaled.

“I’m just overwhelmed.”

That word would become important later.

At the time, I reached across the console and touched his arm.

“I know this is a lot.”

He did not touch my hand.

When we pulled onto Cedarbrook Lane, Lily ran down the front path wearing a pink sweater and rain boots even though the sky was clear.

“Mommy!”

She stopped several feet from the car.

Margaret must have told her not to jump on me.

Lily spread both arms.

“Soft hug!”

I almost cried.

“Perfect.”

She climbed carefully onto my good side while Adrian unfolded the wheelchair.

For thirty seconds, everything felt normal.

Then I entered the house.

It did not look like my house.

The framed family photographs on the entry table had been moved.

The mail basket was empty.

My laptop charger was gone from the kitchen counter.

Several of Adrian’s shoes were missing from the mudroom.

Margaret appeared from the hallway carrying a stack of folded towels.

She wore beige slacks and an expression of efficient suffering.

“Claire.”

“Margaret.”

“You look pale.”

“I was hit by a truck.”

She pressed her lips together.

“I only meant that you should rest.”

“I plan to.”

She turned to Adrian.

“I put the downstairs guest room together.”

I frowned.

“For me?”

“You cannot manage the stairs.”

That was reasonable.

But her tone wasn’t.

I looked toward the guest room.

My pillows were already there.

My phone charger.

Two weeks of clothes.

Even the framed photo of Lily I kept beside my bed.

“Wow.”

Margaret smiled faintly.

“We needed to make things practical.”

Needed.

We.

Adrian stood behind me without speaking.

I looked at him.

“Can you help me change?”

Margaret answered.

“I can.”

“I asked Adrian.”

The room went quiet.

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Claire, I actually need to talk to you.”

There it was.

Every bad conversation in history begins with some version of that sentence.

I looked at Lily.

She had found crayons and was sitting on the living-room rug.

“Not in front of her.”

Adrian nodded.

Margaret said:

“I’ll take Lily into the backyard.”

“No.”

My answer came quickly.

Margaret frowned.

“Claire.”

“She stays where I can see her.”

“She’s your daughter, not a medication schedule.”

That finally made Adrian look at me.

“Mom.”

Margaret went silent.

Good.

Adrian wheeled me into the guest room and closed the door.

He did not sit.

I watched him stand near the dresser.

Hands in pockets.

Eyes on the floor.

“What?”

He took a breath.

“I think I need some space.”

For a second, I thought I had misunderstood.

“From what?”

“Everything.”

I laughed.

Pain shot through my ribs.

I stopped.

“You’re serious.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

“You said that.”

“I’ve been barely holding things together.”

“Three days.”

“No. Longer.”

My stomach tightened.

“What does that mean?”

Adrian finally looked at me.

“I don’t know if we’re working anymore.”

I stared.

“You waited until I came home unable to walk to tell me this?”

“I didn’t plan the accident.”

“That is an impressive defense.”

“Claire.”

“No. Explain.”

He paced once.

“I feel like everything in our marriage has become responsibility.”

“Mortgage.”

“Daycare.”

“Work.”

“Lily.”

“And now this.”

He gestured toward me.

My leg.

My ribs.

My wheelchair.

My body became this.

I felt something inside me go very still.

“And now me being injured is too much.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You pointed at me.”

“I need a break.”

“Where are you going?”

“My mother’s.”

Of course.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Lily?”

“We can figure that out.”

My voice changed.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m her father.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m her mother.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you talking like custody is already part of this conversation?”

He looked away.

That was the second warning.

Then Lily called from the hallway.

“Daddy!”

Adrian opened the door.

She appeared carrying a blue stuffed elephant.

“Can I take this to Grandma’s tonight?”

I looked at her.

“Tonight?”

Lily nodded.

“Daddy said my bunny can stay here because I have Elephant at Grandma’s.”

Adrian went pale.

Margaret appeared behind her.

Too late.

I asked:

“Lily, how long has Elephant been at Grandma’s?”

My daughter thought.

“Since before Mommy got hurt.”

Silence.

I looked at Adrian.

He closed his eyes.

“Claire.”

No.

I turned back to Lily.

“Baby, has Daddy been sleeping at Grandma’s too?”

“Sometimes.”

Adrian stepped forward.

“Enough.”

Margaret said sharply:

“She doesn’t need to be questioned.”

I looked at her.

“You knew.”

Nobody answered.

My pulse hammered.

“His things were already there.”

Adrian said:

“I had moved some clothes.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

Before the accident.

Before the hospital.

Before my broken leg gave him the excuse of being overwhelmed.

Margaret folded her arms.

“This conversation is inappropriate in front of Lily.”

I almost admired the audacity.

“You’re right.”

I looked at Adrian.

“Take your mother outside.”

“Claire—”

“Now.”

Something in my voice worked.

They left.

I called my older sister.

She answered:

“You home?”

“Yes.”

“How bad is the pain?”

“My husband was already moving out before I got hit.”

Silence.

Then:

“What?”

I explained.

Not elegantly.

By the time I finished, my sister said:

“I’m leaving work.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Then I called someone else.

A friend from college who practiced family law in Bellmere.

She listened.

Asked questions.

Then said:

“Do not make decisions while medicated and furious.”

“Helpful.”

“I’m serious.”

“What do I do?”

“Document.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

“Who pays the mortgage?”

“Both of us.”

“Whose name is on the deed?”

“Both.”

“Bank accounts?”

“Joint plus separate retirement accounts.”

“Do you have access?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Do not drain anything.”

“Do not lock him out unless there’s a safety reason and I advise you.”

“Do not text threats.”

“Do not agree to any custody arrangement verbally.”

“And Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Pull your credit report.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Because you said his mother had been opening mail.”

I looked toward the kitchen.

The empty mail basket.

Something cold moved through me.

“Okay.”

My sister arrived forty-five minutes later with groceries, a walker and enough anger for both of us.

Adrian and Margaret were gone.

Adrian left a text:

I’ll give you space tonight. Lily should stay with you. We’ll talk tomorrow.

My sister read it.

“He’ll give you space?”

“Apparently.”

“In your house?”

“Apparently.”

She looked like she wanted to throw my phone.

Instead, she helped Lily make dinner.

Then helped me upstairs because I insisted on seeing my bedroom.

Adrian’s closet was not empty.

That would have been too obvious.

But once I knew to look, I saw it.

His travel bag gone.

Three suits missing.

Running shoes.

Watch box.

Passport.

The nice winter coat.

Not panic packing.

Selection.

Planning.

Then Lily wandered in.

She pointed at a shelf.

“Daddy took the black box too.”

“What black box?”

“The paper one.”

My sister and I looked at each other.

“What paper box, Lily?”

She shrugged.

“The one Grandma said was grown-up stuff.”

My stomach tightened.

Adrian kept financial documents in a black locking file case.

Or used to.

It was gone.

I opened the joint banking app.

Everything looked normal at first.

Mortgage.

Utilities.

Daycare.

Groceries.

Then I noticed a payment I did not recognize.

$1,842.

Recipient:

MC Property Services LLC.

I searched backward.

Another payment the month before.

$1,842.

Then another.

Different amounts earlier.

Always the same company.

My sister sat beside me.

“What is MC Property Services?”

“I don’t know.”

She searched the company online.

Her face changed.

“Claire.”

“What?”

“Registered agent: Margaret Cole.”

I stared.

My mother-in-law had a company.

I had never heard of it.

“What does it do?”

“Property management.”

Margaret owned two rental houses.

That much I knew.

But our account had sent her company more than twenty thousand dollars in eleven months.

I kept scrolling.

Then saw a payment labeled:

HELOC AUTO PAY.

I stopped.

We did not have a home-equity line of credit.

At least, I did not think we did.

I clicked.

A monthly payment.

Started seven months earlier.

Balance:

$68,400.

My mouth went dry.

“What is that?”

My sister whispered:

“Please tell me you knew.”

I didn’t.

I searched my email.

Nothing.

Then my credit report.

There it was.

A home-equity line opened jointly against the Cedarbrook Lane property.

My name attached.

I felt nauseated.

“I never signed this.”

“Could you have done it electronically?”

“No.”

“Absolutely not?”

“I would remember borrowing seventy thousand dollars.”

We called my attorney friend.

She became very quiet.

“That is not just divorce territory.”

“What is it?”

“If your signature was forged or your credentials were used without authorization, it could become bank-fraud territory.”

“Can Adrian do that?”

“He can apply for credit in his own name.”

“He cannot lawfully sign for you.”

“Do nothing tonight.”

“Tomorrow, call the lender’s fraud department.”

“And preserve every document.”

I barely slept.

Not because of pain.

Because every memory started changing shape.

Last spring, Adrian told me we needed to “tighten things up.”

A bank alert I questioned.

Margaret suddenly remodeling one of her rental properties.

Adrian saying she had “refinanced.”

A vacation we canceled because money was tight.

The daycare tuition I paid from my own account because Adrian said the joint account was low.

I had thought marriage meant not keeping score.

Apparently Adrian had counted on that.

The next morning, I called the lender.

Identity verification.

Security questions.

Transfers.

Documents.

Finally, a representative sent me the loan package.

My electronic signature appeared nine times.

So did Adrian’s.

The email address used for my authentication was not mine.

It was one character different.

The phone number attached to the verification belonged to an old family plan.

Margaret’s number.

I stared at the screen.

The lender froze additional draws pending investigation.

Then I looked at where the borrowed money had gone.

Not all to Margaret.

Some paid off Adrian’s private credit cards.

Nearly forty thousand went to MC Property Services.

I called my lawyer.

“There’s more.”

“Of course there is.”

We spent the day building a timeline.

Then the text came from Adrian.

We need to discuss Lily. Mom thinks we should establish a temporary routine while you recover.

Mom thinks.

I stared at it.

Then typed:

Please communicate about Lily in writing for now.

He replied almost immediately:

Claire, don’t make this ugly.

I showed my sister.

She laughed without humor.

“He steals sixty-eight grand against the house and asks you not to make it ugly.”

“Allegedly.”

She stared at me.

“You’ve been around lawyers too long.”

The next week was not dramatic.

It was exhausting.

That is the part stories usually skip.

Forms.

Phone calls.

Medical appointments.

Home-care assessments.

Insurance.

A physical therapist coming to Cedarbrook Lane three times a week.

My sister rearranging her schedule to stay with us.

A neighbor handling preschool pickup.

My attorney filing for temporary parenting orders because Adrian suddenly proposed that Lily stay primarily with him and Margaret “until Claire regained mobility.”

That phrase nearly broke me.

Regained mobility.

As if motherhood required two unbroken legs.

Adrian’s filing described his mother’s home as “more stable during Claire’s recovery.”

My attorney read it twice.

Then said:

“He was planning this.”

I knew.

The accident had not created his exit.

It had created timing.

That was worse.

Adrian came to Cedarbrook Lane twice to see Lily.

I did not interfere.

I stayed in another room during most of the visits.

The second time, Lily asked:

“Daddy, are you coming home when Mommy can walk?”

He hesitated.

“No, sweetheart.”

“Grandma said you might.”

My eyes closed.

There was always Margaret.

Adrian said:

“Grandma shouldn’t have said that.”

Lily frowned.

“Grandma said Mommy makes things hard.”

I heard the chair scrape as Adrian shifted.

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

Then Lily added:

“But Mommy got hit by a truck.”

My sister covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

Four-year-old logic.

Perfectly devastating.

Two weeks later, the lender confirmed serious irregularities in the HELOC application.

My authentication had been routed through a number associated with Margaret.

The device used to accept several disclosures matched an IP address at Margaret’s house.

Adrian’s attorney called it a misunderstanding.

Margaret claimed she had helped “with technical paperwork.”

I claimed nothing.

I let records speak.

The family-court hearing happened four weeks after I came home.

I arrived on crutches.

Not a wheelchair.

Partly because I had improved.

Partly because I refused to let Margaret see me rolled into that courtroom.

My attorney hated that reasoning.

“Do not turn rehabilitation into theater.”

“I’m medically cleared.”

“Fine.”

“Then please walk slowly.”

Adrian sat at the other table.

Margaret was behind him.

She had dressed like someone attending a funeral.

Conservative.

Sad.

Concerned.

I almost laughed.

The hearing was only about temporary arrangements.

Not the divorce.

Not criminal charges.

Not final custody.

But everything touched everything.

Adrian’s attorney argued that because of my injuries and continued treatment, Lily should spend school nights with Adrian at Margaret’s house.

My attorney presented the actual care plan.

My sister.

Preschool transportation.

Home health.

Physical therapy.

Medical evidence that I could safely supervise Lily.

Then came the timing.

Texts between Adrian and Margaret from before the accident had been produced during financial discovery.

One from Margaret:

Have you moved the rest of your work clothes yet?

Adrian:

Friday. She won’t notice.

Another:

Once you’re here full-time, Lily can adjust gradually.

Three days before the crash.

My stomach turned even though I had already read them.

Then a message sent the morning after my accident.

Margaret:

This may make the transition easier. She can’t manage Lily alone right now.

Adrian had replied:

I know. I feel terrible thinking that.

Margaret:

Stop feeling guilty. Use the timing.

Use the timing.

That phrase sat in the courtroom like smoke.

Adrian looked down.

For the first time, I wondered whether he hated his mother.

Not enough to resist her.

Maybe enough to know what she had turned him into.

My attorney then raised the undisclosed financial issue—not to prove criminal wrongdoing, because that was being handled elsewhere, but to challenge Adrian’s portrayal of himself as the financially stable parent.

The judge looked at him.

“You borrowed against the marital residence?”

Adrian’s attorney stood.

“Your Honor, that matter is disputed.”

“I understand.”

The judge looked at Adrian.

“Did you know a home-equity line existed?”

“Yes.”

“Did your wife?”

Adrian hesitated.

“I thought she did.”

That hurt.

Not because it was convincing.

Because it was cowardly.

“Did you discuss borrowing approximately sixty-eight thousand dollars with her?”

“I thought my mother handled—”

The judge stopped him.

“I asked what you discussed with your wife.”

Silence.

“Not directly.”

There it was.

Margaret shifted behind him.

The temporary order kept Lily primarily at Cedarbrook Lane, with scheduled parenting time for Adrian.

Not because I had “won.”

Because the court saw no reason my injury prevented me from parenting with support.

The judge also ordered both parents not to involve Lily in adult disputes.

Outside the courtroom, Margaret approached me.

My sister stepped forward.

I raised a hand.

I wanted to hear this.

Margaret looked at my crutches.

Then at me.

“You’re destroying your daughter’s family.”

I almost admired her consistency.

“No.”

“You could have handled this privately.”

“I tried handling things privately for eight years.”

“You’re punishing Adrian because he became overwhelmed.”

“No.”

“He had every right to leave.”

“Yes.”

That surprised her.

I continued:

“He had every right to leave the marriage.”

“He did not have the right to prepare a custody strategy behind my back.”

“He did not have the right to hide debt against our house.”

“And neither of you had the right to use my accident as leverage.”

Margaret’s face tightened.

“I kept him afloat.”

“With our money?”

“Careful.”

“No.”

I leaned slightly on the crutch.

“You’ve spent years teaching Adrian that every consequence can be transferred to someone else.”

“When he was uncomfortable, you rescued him.”

“When he needed money, you found a way.”

“When marriage got hard, you made him a bedroom.”

“When I got hurt, you called it an opportunity.”

She went pale.

Adrian had walked out of the courtroom behind her.

He heard everything.

For once, Margaret had nothing ready.

She left.

Adrian stayed.

“Claire.”

I looked at him.

He seemed smaller than I remembered.

Not physically.

Some people shrink when you finally understand them.

“I’m sorry.”

I almost laughed.

“For which part?”

“All of it.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He looked toward the elevator.

“I was going to leave before the accident.”

“I know.”

“I had been unhappy.”

“You were allowed to say that.”

“I know.”

“I was scared.”

“Of me?”

“Of conflict.”

That made perfect sense.

Adrian had spent his entire life avoiding conflict by letting Margaret choose for him.

“What about the HELOC?”

His face changed.

“Mom needed money to save two properties.”

“There were tax problems.”

“She said we could use the equity, then pay it back.”

“And my signature?”

“I didn’t sign for you.”

“Then who did?”

He looked away.

Margaret.

Of course.

“She said she handled the application.”

“And you didn’t question why your wife never discussed a sixty-eight-thousand-dollar loan?”

“I knew you’d say no.”

There are sentences that end marriages.

That one ended whatever remained of mine.

“So you knew I didn’t agree.”

Adrian’s eyes filled.

“I knew you probably wouldn’t.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For finally saying something honest.”

I walked away.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But away.

The financial investigation took months.

The lender ultimately treated my signatures as unauthorized.

My liability for the disputed debt was challenged and later resolved through the separation proceedings and fraud review.

Margaret’s company had received tens of thousands from the loan.

Some money was recovered.

Some was not.

I learned to accept that justice is sometimes accounting instead of fireworks.

Adrian’s relationship with Margaret deteriorated badly.

I did not enjoy that as much as I expected.

Watching a forty-one-year-old man finally realize his mother’s version of love had kept him dependent was mostly sad.

He started therapy.

I know because he told me during one of our custody exchanges.

I said:

“Good.”

He seemed disappointed I did not praise him.

That was another habit we both had to break.

Lily adjusted.

Children often do when adults stop using them as evidence.

She stayed with me most weekdays.

Saw Adrian regularly.

Loved him.

I never asked her not to.

One evening, months later, she came home from his apartment carrying the blue stuffed elephant.

“Daddy has his own house now.”

“I know.”

“Not Grandma’s.”

“I know.”

“Grandma is mad.”

I almost smiled.

“That is Grandma’s feeling.”

Lily considered.

“Daddy says people have to handle their own feelings.”

I looked at her.

“That’s a good thing to learn.”

Apparently therapy was working.

My cast came off after seven weeks.

The first time I walked through the kitchen without crutches, Lily applauded like I had won an Olympic medal.

I bowed.

My ribs no longer hurt when I laughed.

The scar on my leg faded.

The stranger changes were slower.

I began checking every financial statement.

Not obsessively.

Carefully.

I rebuilt savings.

Started consulting from home while recovering, then expanded it after returning to work.

I changed the downstairs guest room again.

Not because I wanted to erase the six weeks I slept there.

Because Margaret had chosen everything in it.

The bedding.

The lamp.

Even the placement of the dresser.

One Saturday, Lily and I painted one wall pale green.

She got paint in her hair.

On the floor.

Somehow on the dog, even though we did not own a dog.

I still do not understand that one.

The house on Cedarbrook Lane became mine again.

Not legally mine alone yet.

Emotionally mine.

That mattered first.

Almost a year after the accident, Adrian came to pick Lily up for the weekend.

He waited on the porch.

No longer walked in without asking.

Another small change.

Lily ran upstairs for a sweater.

Adrian looked at me.

“You look good.”

“I can reach my own water now.”

He winced.

“I deserve that.”

“Yes.”

Then silence.

He said:

“I think about the hospital.”

“What about it?”

“The fact that I’d already planned to leave.”

“And then you were hurt.”

“And I still made it about me.”

I did not rescue him from the sentence.

He continued.

“I thought being overwhelmed excused everything.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I know.”

Lily came running down the stairs.

“Ready!”

Adrian smiled.

She took his hand.

Before leaving, she turned toward me.

“Soft hug?”

I crouched.

Her arms wrapped around my neck.

A year earlier, she had stood in the driveway saying the same thing because she was afraid touching me might hurt.

Now she nearly knocked me over.

“Not so soft anymore.”

“I forgot.”

“That’s okay.”

Adrian watched us.

Something passed across his face.

Regret, probably.

Maybe grief.

I no longer needed to identify it.

That was his feeling.

He could handle it.

After they left, I stood in the doorway.

Cedarbrook Lane was quiet.

Hydrangeas along the driveway.

The stupid third stair still squeaked.

The kitchen window needed cleaning.

Ordinary life.

For months after the accident, people told me I was strong.

I hated it.

Strength had nothing to do with what happened.

I did not wake up in the hospital transformed into some fearless woman.

I came home frightened.

In pain.

Still wanting my husband to explain everything in a way that would make us a family again.

What changed me was information.

A toothbrush in the wrong place.

My daughter saying Daddy’s things were already at Grandma’s.

A missing file box.

A line on a bank statement.

A loan I had never agreed to.

Small facts.

One after another.

Until denial required more effort than truth.

Adrian and Margaret thought my injuries made me vulnerable.

They were right.

I was vulnerable.

I needed help bathing.

Cooking.

Driving.

Getting Lily to preschool.

But they confused vulnerability with helplessness.

Those are not the same thing.

My broken leg healed.

The marriage didn’t.

And eventually I understood that was not the tragedy I thought it was.

The real tragedy would have been healing my body, taking Adrian back, returning control of the bills to him and spending another decade calling silence peace.

Months after our divorce was finalized, I found Lily drawing at the kitchen table.

Three houses.

One was ours.

One belonged to Adrian.

The third was enormous and purple.

“Whose is that?”

“Grandma’s.”

“Why is it so big?”

“She likes being in charge.”

I laughed.

Lily looked up.

“What?”