I married him for stability, not love. He needed a mother for his daughter. I needed a roof. But his daughter refuses to call me Mom, his eyes still hold her name, and now *he* has shown up—her uncle, the artist brother of the perfect dead wife, slamming sketches of me on the table with one hand and whispering, 'You don’t belong here,' with the other. This house breathes memories I can’t erase.