Wiley witnesses his mother acting in a disturbing way toward Jacinda in a moment that begins as something small and ordinary but quickly unravels into one of the most unsettling scenes he has ever experienced, because the day starts quietly at the Quartermaine mansion with Wiley playing on the floor, lining up his toy cars while the adults bustle around preparing for yet another tense family afternoon, and he barely looks up when Willow enters the room, her movements sharp and jittery, her smile a little too forced, the kind she uses when she’s trying to hide something bubbling dangerously under the surface, but even at his young age Wiley senses that something is off, that his mother isn’t acting like the calm, gentle Willow he knows but like someone bracing for a storm only she can see, and when Jacinda stops by to drop off paperwork for the hospital fundraiser, Wiley watches from the doorway as the energy in the room shifts the instant Willow notices her, because instead of greeting her kindly or politely accepting the envelope, Willow stiffens, her eyes narrowing in a way that makes Wiley’s stomach twist, and she steps forward with slow, deliberate intensity as though Jacinda has somehow trespassed into a space she has no right to enter, and Jacinda, puzzled, offers a nervous smile, asking if everything is alright, but Willow doesn’t answer at first, instead circling her like she’s inspecting a threat, her breathing quickening, her hands trembling just slightly, and Wiley feels the air grow heavier as Willow suddenly asks, in a sharp, accusatory whisper, what Jacinda is really doing there, demanding to know why she’s been spending so much time around Michael, why she volunteered for the fundraiser committee, why she always seems to “show up at the perfect moment,” and Jacinda, taken aback, tries to explain that she’s simply helping out, that she admires Willow and Michael and wants the event to run smoothly, but Willow steps closer, too close, her voice dropping into something cold, edged with suspicion that feels wildly out of place and deeply frightening, and she tells Jacinda that she doesn’t trust her, that she’s been watching her, that she thinks Jacinda is trying to worm her way into their family for reasons she refuses to say, and Wiley, frozen in the doorway, watches his mother’s expression twist with something he doesn’t have a name for—fear, anger, confusion, maybe all three blending into a version of her he barely recognizes—as Jacinda slowly backs up with her hands raised, insisting that she has no hidden agenda, that she’s only trying to help, but Willow snaps, saying that she sees through her act, that she knows exactly the kind of person Jacinda really is, and her voice rises enough that Wiley winces, because it doesn’t sound like Willow anymore but like a stranger wearing her skin, and when Jacinda gently suggests that maybe Willow needs to slow down or talk to someone, Willow’s face darkens, and she lunges forward, grabbing Jacinda’s wrist in a grip far too tight, her knuckles white, her eyes wild, whispering something about how she won’t let anyone take her family away again, not after everything she’s survived, not after what they’ve all lost, and Jacinda, shocked and frightened, tries to pull away, but Willow holds on, her breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts, and Wiley finally makes a small sound—just a quiet, scared “Mom?”—but it lands in the room like a thunderclap, snapping Willow’s attention to him with a sudden, jerking movement that chills him to the bone, her face softening but in a strange, erratic way, as though she’s fighting two different versions of herself, and she releases Jacinda abruptly, almost mechanically, stumbling back a step as though realizing too late how tightly she was gripping her, while Jacinda holds her wrist, red and already swelling, staring at Willow in stunned disbelief, and the silence that follows feels unbearably heavy as Willow turns toward Wiley, her expression flickering between panic, guilt, and something darker, whispering his name like she’s trying to ground herself but failing miserably, and Wiley, wide-eyed, doesn’t run to her like he usually does but stays planted in the doorway, unsure, frightened, because the mother standing in front of him feels unpredictable, unfamiliar, as though she might snap again without warning, and Jacinda, recovering enough to speak, tells Willow carefully and firmly that she needs help, that something is clearly wrong, and Willow’s face crumples in a painful, disoriented way, insisting she’s fine, that she just misread everything, that she didn’t mean to scare anyone, but her voice trembles and breaks, betraying the turmoil roiling beneath the surface, and as Wiley watches, clutching one of his toy cars so hard it digs into his palm, Jacinda quietly tells him she’s going to get Michael, her tone soft and steady, and Willow’s eyes widen with fear as she whispers “Please don’t,” but Jacinda has already stepped out, leaving Willow standing in the middle of the room shaking, tears streaming down her face as she sinks to her knees and reaches for Wiley with a trembling hand, apologizing over and over, saying she didn’t mean to frighten him, that she doesn’t know what’s happening to her, and Wiley, heart pounding, slowly steps closer but stops just out of reach, torn between the mother he loves and the frightening version he just witnessed, and in that moment Michael’s frantic footsteps echo down the hall as he rushes toward the room, his expression shifting the instant he sees Willow on the floor and the look of fear still lingering on Wiley’s face, and though he doesn’t yet know the full story, the fracture lines are clear: something is wrong—very wrong—and whatever is happening inside Willow’s mind has reached a breaking point, leaving her family terrified, Jacinda shaken, and Wiley carrying the image of a mother who, for the first time in his young life, seemed capable of something he never thought possible.