Six months earlier, I would have bet my heartbeat on happily-ever-after. Thomas had a “clean” job, a “safe” house, a mother in a cottage out back who insisted the key she carried was “for emergencies.” Now I understood that some emergencies are manufactured. Diane narrated my pregnancy like a critic. “No coffee,” she said, taking my mug. “No stress,” she said, picking fights. “My grandson,” she said, as if the child inside me were on loan. “It’s a girl,” I would say, and she’d smile the way peop