I saw the robe first.
I came down the stairs that Thursday morning with Mae's hand in mine, thinking about oatmeal and whether we had enough blueberries, and there was Alayna at the kitchen island. Wearing my cream cashmere robe.
Not hers. Mine. The one Mitchell bought me three Christmases ago, the soft one I saved for cold mornings when my bones ached and I needed something gentle against my skin.
She had tied the belt tight around her waist. Her dark hair spilled over the collar. She looked up when I walked in, and her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Good morning," she said. Her voice was warm, bright. "Mitchell said I could borrow anything. I hope that's okay?"
I looked at her. At the robe. At the coffee she'd poured into one of my favorite mugs — the pottery one Mae made me at a craft fair last spring, lopsided and uneven and precious.
I opened my mouth. Then I closed it.
Mae tugged my hand. I looked down. Her eyes were wide and uncertain.
I made oatmeal. I put blueberries in it. I sat Mae down at the table and kissed the top of her head. I didn't say a word.
But I noticed.
---
That same afternoon, I went upstairs to put away laundry. I opened my closet and stopped.
My blouses were out of order.
I know that sounds small. I know it sounds like nothing. But I had arranged them by color, sleeve length, fabric weight — a system I'd kept for years because it made the mornings easier, made me feel like I had some small corner of my life under control.
Now the navy silk was beside the cream linen. The short sleeves mixed with the long. Someone had been in here. Someone had touched my things.
I pulled out the navy blouse. Held it up to the light. There was a faint trace of perfume on the collar. Not mine. Something heavier. Sweeter.
I hung it back carefully. My hands didn't shake.
I walked to the bathroom. My skincare bottles lined the counter in a neat row — serums, lotions, the eye cream I splurged on twice a year because it was the only thing that kept the dark circles from making me look like I hadn't slept in months.
The bottle was half-empty.
I had opened it six days ago. It should have lasted me eight weeks.
I picked it up. Turned it in my hand. Set it back down.
I walked downstairs and found Mitchell in his office, door half-open, typing something on his laptop.
"Someone's been using my things," I said.
He didn't look up. "What?"
"My robe. My clothes. My skincare. Alayna's been going through my closet."
He stopped typing. He leaned back in his chair and looked at me with this slow, patient expression, like I was a child who'd just told him the sky was falling.
"She doesn't have much with her," he said. "She's recovering. She probably just needed something comfortable."
"She could ask."
"She shouldn't have to ask. You're being materialistic, Syd. These are just things." He turned back to the screen. "Try showing some compassion."
I stood there for a beat. Two. Then I walked out.
I thought: He didn't even hesitate.
I thought: He's already chosen.
---
The next morning, Mae came into the kitchen holding her colored pencils.
She loved those pencils. I'd bought them for her sixth birthday — sixty colors in a tin case with her name engraved on the lid. She drew with them every day, filling page after page with careful, meticulous rainbows and gardens and tiny houses with curtains in the windows.
Now half of them were snapped in two.
She stood in front of me, her face blank, the broken pieces cradled in her palms.
"What happened?" I asked.
She didn't answer. She just looked at me with those wide, serious eyes.
I heard footsteps behind me. Alayna drifted into the kitchen, her movements slow and languid, like she'd just woken from a long nap.
"Oh," she said softly, glancing at Mae. "Those broke? I'm so sorry, sweetheart. You're probably too old for that sort of thing anyway."
Mae's fingers tightened around the pencils.
I opened my mouth, but Alayna was already turning away, reaching for the kettle, humming something under her breath.
Mae looked up at me.
I knelt down. I took the broken pencils from her hands. I kissed her forehead and whispered, "I'll get you new ones."
But I knew it didn't matter. The new ones wouldn't have her name on them.
---
That night, Mae woke up screaming.
I bolted upright, heart slamming, and she was already there — stumbling into the bedroom, her face wet with tears, her small hands reaching for me in the dark.
I pulled her into bed. She pressed herself against my side, her body trembling.
"Bad dream," she whispered.
I smoothed her hair. I held her until her breathing slowed.
Mitchell didn't wake up. Or if he did, he didn't move.
Mae started coming to my side of the bed every night after that. Silent. Shaking. Needing me.
---
Two days later, I found the china.
My wedding china. The set my grandmother helped me pick, ivory with a delicate gold rim, stored carefully in felt-lined boxes because it was too precious for everyday use.
Alayna had used it for toast.
The plates were stacked in the drying rack, still dotted with crumbs and butter smears, wedged between coffee mugs and juice glasses like they were nothing.
I stood there staring at them. My chest felt tight.
I washed them by hand. I dried them. I put them back in their boxes.
Then I saw the receipt.
It was lying on the counter, half-hidden under a dish towel. I pulled it out.
Mitchell had bought a silk nightgown. Six hundred dollars. From a boutique downtown.
I looked down at my pajamas. Faded cotton. Two years old. The drawstring fraying at the waist.
I stood there for a long time.
Then I pulled out my phone. I took a picture of the receipt. My hands were perfectly steady.
I saved it in a folder I titled "Documents."
I didn't say a word.
