“Steven, could you tell Martha to keep it down?” Everly’s voice rang out, edged with irritation. “The baby needs sleep.”

I looked up, baffled. Martha was barely making a sound. But this had become routine—Everly dictating how Martha should behave in her own home.

I heard Martha’s light footsteps as she entered the living room to help. She had been so eager to spoil her first grandchild. Then came a thud, followed by her startled gasp and the crash of shattering glass.

I rushed in. Martha was on the floor, flowers and water scattered around her, her face flushed with hum:iliation. Everly stood above her holding the baby, her expression changed.

“Don’t you dare touch him!” she commented. “You’re filthy. Look at this mess. Do you think I’d let dirty hands near my son?”