Fine, I gasp, exasperated. I do love my mother—deeply, truly—but she can be unbearably overbearing at times. It’s like living with a steamroller made of lace and unsolicited advice. She means well, I think, but she’s got her own... methods. Tonight, for example, she served eggs, bacon, and waffles for dinner. Not brunch. Not breakfast-for-dinner-as-a-fun-change. Just... dinner. And you know what? That’s our favorite. Mine, hers, and even Joseph's—back when he had the ability to chew.

We eat. We laugh. We discuss the problem in the basement.

The “problem” being Joseph.

Oh—right. I should probably mention: Joseph is my husband. Or was. Or still is, depending on whether you take the vow “’til death do us part” literally or figuratively. Mother does. She’s very traditional in that way.

Joseph used to be... difficult. He wasn’t a bad man. Just a violent one. Hot-tempered, cold-hearted, and slippery. I suppose I could’ve let him go when things fell apart. Could’ve let him leave when he packed his bags and announced he was going off with that red-headed tart from the Pilates studio.

But I didn’t.

Because I’m a sensible wife.

I drugged him, cuffed him to the radiator, and when that proved insufficient—I got creative. Took his legs so he’d stop running. Took his hands so he’d stop throwing things. Starved him until the hunger chewed through whatever arrogance he had left. He’d said he’d die before crawling back to me. He was wrong.

He did crawl.

He just used his chin.

And now? Now we’ve reached a beautiful place of understanding. Equilibrium. He doesn't yell. He doesn't run. He doesn’t hit. He just exists. Quiet, cooperative, compliant. Sure, he’s missing some essential pieces—physically and emotionally—but aren't we all? At least now, there's no doubt in my mind that he’s truly mine.

Of course, Mother’s taken quite a liking to him. More than I’d expected. These days, she uses him for... well, things I won’t detail too explicitly. Let’s just say she’s been exploring her interests. Her twisted, latex-covered, strap-on-wielding interests. Joseph doesn’t complain, naturally. Not with no tongue. Not with no teeth.

After dinner, I take the leftovers down to the basement. Scraps for Joseph. He can’t chew much anymore, so I precut everything into soft, manageable bits. I hum a little tune—our wedding song—as I spoon eggs into his mouth. He gurgles something back. I imagine it’s “thank you,” or at least a groan of appreciation. His gums look sore again. I make a mental note to get him some ointment. Or not.

He looks good tonight. Calm. Peaceful, even. Maybe it’s the waffles. Or maybe it’s the silence between us that speaks of a bond deeper than language. The kind forged in captivity.

After I’ve cleaned him up, kissed his forehead, and whispered sweet nothings into the stitched hole where his ear used to be, I head upstairs.

“Mother,” I call, tossing the rag into the sink, “he’s all yours. Don’t keep him up too late this time, please. I have to get back home and relieve the sitter.”

She waves me off, already unzipping her vinyl robe.

I try not to judge. We all cope in different ways. Mine is structure. Hers is... Joseph.

Back home, my little one is curled up on the couch, asleep with a juice box still clenched in one hand like a security blanket. So calm. So safe. It warms me. I pay the sitter. She looks pale. Won’t make eye contact. Not surprising—last time Mother was over, she gave the poor girl a "tour" of the meat freezer. She leaves quickly.

Once the door clicks shut, I lock it, draw the blinds, and check the live feed. The camera in the basement shows Mother straddling Joseph, a beer-can-sized object in her hand.

“Mother,” I say sharply through the intercom, “pull that out at once. I told you—go down a size.”

She glances at the camera, clearly irritated, hair plastered to her face in damp tangles. “You want smaller?” she hisses. “Fine. I’m getting Baby.”

Then she cuts the feed.

I sigh. Deeply. No sitter. No control. No choice.

Joseph is screwed. Literally.

Now, Baby—let me explain—is a creation of Mother’s. She built it during her "crafting phase" last fall. Baby is studded with screws and mounted on what used to be my husband’s most prized asset—pre-surgery. She sewed it back together with fishhooks and rebar. It vibrates. It whispers. Sometimes, I think Baby is alive.

Mother says it moans her name at night. I think she’s projecting.

Anyway, I close the monitor. My son is still sleeping, and that's what matters. He doesn’t need to know what’s going on downstairs. He doesn’t need to know about his father. Not yet.

I carry him gently to bed, tuck him in, and kiss his forehead.

“Goodnight, little one,” I whisper. “You’re safe. You’re loved. You’re nothing like him.”

I check the locks again. Three deadbolts. Alarm set. I crawl into my own bed, exhausted but content. Everything in its place. Husband fed. Mother occupied. Child asleep. System stable.

Before sleep takes me, I hear the faintest sound from the monitor. A wet, mechanical hum. Then silence. Then—giggles. Not Mother’s. Not Joseph’s.

Baby.

I sigh again. There’s always tomorrow.