For the first time in years, she ate a slice without waiting for someone to tell her it was wrong.

And Lena had believed it. She became the extension of Carol’s unfulfilled dreams—the polite daughter, the careful dresser, the one who called every Sunday at 6 p.m. sharp. In return, Carol gave her a curated identity: Mommy’s girl. Safe. Sweet. Needy.

The screen glowed blue in the dark of the bedroom, casting shadows that made the scattered laundry look like sleeping animals. On the profile, the avatar was a cartoon of a toddler clutching her mother’s skirt. The username: .