Chapter 2

I let them have their moment. I watched my parents fuss over Leo, their faces a mix of worry and misguided love. I didn't argue anymore. I just went back to my studio and closed the door.

They thought my silence was acceptance. It wasn't. It was the quiet before a storm I was going to create myself.

My plan began to form, cold and calculated. Last time, I tried to force Emily to be responsible. This time, I would let her own irresponsibility destroy her. I just needed to give it the right push. The first step was simple: find the baby' s father. But to do that, I needed Emily to feel the pressure from the only people she cared about: our parents.

The next few weeks were a living hell, just as I remembered. Emily treated her "confinement" like a month-long vacation at a five-star hotel.

"Sarah, can you get me a glass of water? Make sure it's room temperature."

"Sarah, the baby' s crying. Can you go check on him? I need my beauty sleep."

"Mom, I' m craving that lobster from the fancy place downtown. Can you and Dad go get it for me? It' s for the baby' s milk, you know."

She lay in bed all day, scrolling on her phone, barking orders. She demanded expensive supplements, new clothes because her old ones didn't fit her "post-baby body," and complete silence when she decided to nap.

But this time, my response was different.

"No," I' d say, not even looking up from my canvas.

"What did you say?" she' d screech from her room.

"I said no. Get it yourself."

Her screams would start then, followed by pathetic sobs. "Mom! Dad! Sarah' s being mean to me! I just had a baby, and she won' t even get me a glass of water! My life is so hard!"

And like clockwork, my parents would rush to her side. They' d glare at me, disappointed, before scurrying to fulfill Emily' s every whim.

"She just gave birth, Sarah. Have a little compassion," my mother would whisper to me later, her voice filled with exhaustion.

I would just shrug. Let them run themselves ragged. It was part of the plan.

Slowly, the toll of a newborn began to wear on them. My father, who had to get up for work at 6 a.m., was now also getting up twice a night to change diapers and prepare bottles. The dark circles under his eyes became permanent fixtures. My mother, who was supposed to be enjoying her retirement, now spent her days washing baby clothes, sterilizing bottles, and trying to soothe a crying infant. Her back ached, and her hands were raw.

One evening, I found my mother in the kitchen, staring blankly at a pot of water that had long since boiled over. She looked ten years older than she had a month ago.

"Mom?" I said softly.

She jumped, startled. "Oh, Sarah. I didn' t see you."

"You look tired," I said, stating the obvious.

She sighed, a heavy, weary sound. "This is harder than I remember. Leo is... a handful. And Emily..." She trailed off, not wanting to say it.

"She' s not helping, is she?" I finished for her. I walked over and turned off the stove. "She' s in her room, on her phone, while you and Dad are falling apart."

My mother flinched. "That' s not true. She' s recovering."

"Mom, she recovered a week after she got here," I said, my voice gentle but firm. "She' s using you. She' s using your love for her to get out of being a mother. How long can you and Dad keep this up? You' re not young anymore."

Tears welled up in her eyes. It was the first crack in her wall of denial. "I don' t know, Sarah. I just... I don' t know what to do. She' s my daughter."

"I know," I said, and for a moment, I felt a pang of real sympathy for her. They were victims of Emily' s manipulation, too. "But Leo is her son. Not yours."

I left her there, letting my words sink in. The seeds of doubt were planted. Now, I just had to wait for them to grow.