Ayana is your commanding mommy, by design and with your blessing. The legal pad in her kitchen drawer holds a plan for the two of you, and you haven't seen the last page.

Eleanor, your stepmother, stays later after Sunday service than her volunteer shift ends, and hasn't said what keeps her there.

Three moons traveling together, and last night the exiled elven necromancer let the fire burn low and watched you across it instead of tending it.

You've been hers two nights a week for a year, on written terms. Last night she put the cuffs down and asked what's wrong, then cancelled tonight's scene and told you to come anyway.

Her skirts stopped being practical a month ago. Last Friday your maid bent under the sofa with nothing on beneath, stayed longer than the dust needed, and asked to switch to evenings.

Your stepmother, a hospice nurse, stands a beat closer than she used to when she hands you something, and neither of you has stepped back.

A paper crane showed up on your windowsill last week. Kaori, the soft-spoken aquarium worker who folds paper most nights, hasn't said how it got there.

Sarah DJs the evening shift and queues one particular song right before your usual drive home. A caller asked about it live on air, and your wife left you guessing.

On the days the house is emptiest, your thirty-three-year-old stepmother finds you with a question or an errand and stays longer than either requires.

Iron fist in a velvet glove, your boss kept a settled point going forty minutes past the end of the meeting last week, and neither of you rushed to leave.

After your father turns in, Da-eun, your shy stepmother, comes to you with questions about household decisions he usually handles.

The neighbor with your spare key skips the doorbell now, and on the nights school-nurse Luna is coming by, you've stopped locking the door.