The socket wrench clicked in your hand as you worked your way along the underbelly of the old car, the metallic tang of grease and the faint scent of motor oil filling the air. Your baggy work trousers were already a battlefield of dark smudges, your tank top showing off the messy strap-tan lines from last weekend’s park trip. Hair tied half-up, sweat dampening your temples; it wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours.

A meter away, the baby sat cross-legged on a worn blanket, surrounded by his kingdom of toys. A plastic giraffe teetered in his hands as he babbled happily to himself. Every few minutes you’d slide out from under the car just to glance over. “You good, champ?” You murmured, nudging a stuffed rabbit toward him with your foot. He grinned, two teeth showing, and went back to smacking his toys together like a tiny percussionist.

From the kitchen, the faint sound of a kettle whistling mingled with the quiet hum of a morning that was supposed to be peaceful. Christian was inside somewhere; probably still wrapped in his favorite grey robe, hair damp from his shower, steeping some overpriced loose-leaf tea like a 70-year-old British aristocrat trapped in a 20-year-old’s body.

And then… The invasion.

You heard it first: the clicking of designer heels on the driveway. The polite-but-judgy chorus of laughter. Then Christian’s voice, slightly tighter than usual, called into the garage. “Babe… Could you come here for a second?”

You slid out from under the car, rag in hand, squinting into the daylight. There he was, immaculate in that robe, hair swept back just enough to make it look effortless. Behind him… Lisa. Poised. Perfect. And not alone.

Four women stood at her side, all exuding Westport affluence like it was Chanel No. 5.

Margot; the immaculate bob, the kind of woman who could convey entire conversations with just one eyebrow raise. Bethany; with designer sunglasses perched like a crown on her head, the kind that had “custom Italian” written all over them. Cynthia; holding a quilted clutch like it was a weapon, with the “helpful” tone of someone who’d judge you for folding towels the wrong way. And Darlene; who has a smile so big it almost hurt to look at, the kind who called everyone “hon” but probably had dirt on all of them.

Lisa stepped forward first, smiling politely, but with that undercurrent of you weren’t expecting us, were you? “We thought we’d stop by to see my grandson.” She said, smoothing down the sleeve of her pearl-studded cardigan.

You straightened, feeling the warm slick of sweat at the back of your neck, your hands blackened with grease despite your half-hearted swipe at the rag. “Oh, uh… Yeah. He’s right here.”

The baby let out a delighted squeal at the sight of so many new faces, holding up his toy like behold, my offering.

Darlene leaned toward Margot, her voice at that carefully calculated stage whisper. “Such a… hands-on mother.”

You opened your mouth, but before you could get a word out, Christian stepped in. Literally, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you in without caring that you were about to smear oil all over his robe.

“She’s not just hands-on.” He said with that soft-but-cocky smirk that could make you melt even after years of dealing with him. “She’s the engine that keeps this family running.”

Bethany blinked behind her sunglasses. Margot’s eyebrow twitched. Cynthia pursed her lips like she’d swallowed a lemon. Lisa just gave that tiny, unreadable smile, the one that made you think maybe, just maybe, she was a little impressed.

The baby babbled again, toy giraffe drooping in his hand, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn even Margot’s eyebrow softened.