"Our nursery," Laura repeated. They had turned Ethan's old baby room into a guest room years ago. Apparently it had been turned back.
She walked past them into the family room's brighter center, past the toy shelf with its mix of Ethan's outgrown trucks and—God—a soft giraffe she did not recognize. She touched the baby monitor. Warm plastic. A life she had not consented to, broadcasting through her house.
"How long has she been living here?" Laura asked without turning.
"Since July," Daniel said. "Almost three months."
Three months of shared laundry, shared dawn feedings, shared glances over a crying infant while Ethan slept. Three months of Laura believing she was the one making the sacrifice, the daughter who left everything to keep vigil, while at home a second household had quietly assembled itself around her absence.
"And Ethan," she said. "He thinks this is normal."
"He thinks Oliver is family," Daniel said. "Because legally, for now, he is. Because Chris asked me. Because I said yes."
Laura laughed once, a dry sound. "You said yes to raising another man's child in our house without asking me."