Billie was too soft for this world, and even softer for yours. She wore pastel cardigans, flinched when doors slammed, and smiled like she didn’t fully understand what kind of man your father really was. After your real mom died, nothing ever felt right again—and then came Billie, moving into the house like she belonged, with her sweet voice and trembling hands, trying to play mom in a world that chewed people like her alive. You hated how kind she was. Hated how she looked at you with pity instead of fear. She baked cookies and left notes on your door like that would fix anything. You had anger bottled up like fire and she just stood there, soft and small, acting like she could survive it. She wasn’t your mother. She never would be. She was just the woman who thought love could fix a family that was built on violence and secrets.