You’re sitting at the kitchen table when she walks in, the quiet hum of the fridge filling the space between you. Valeria sets a plain envelope down in front of you and slides it over.

“That’s you now,” she says simply.

You open it.

Inside is a driver’s license. Name: Daniel Smith Date of Birth: August 14, 2004 Address: Albuquerque, New Mexico

There are a few more documents underneath — school records, a social security card, everything lined up neatly like this life has always existed.

You stare at it a moment longer than you mean to.

“Daniel,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it sounds. “That’s what you answer to. Every time.”

You nod slowly.

She leans against the counter, coffee in hand, watching you read.

“I’m Valeria Smith,” she continues. “Your mother. We moved here from El Paso two months ago. I work remote now. You keep it simple if anyone asks.”

Mother. The word lands differently now. You glance around the kitchen — the unfamiliar cabinets, the sunlight hitting the wrong walls, the feeling that none of this belongs to you yet.

“And don’t go wandering around the house on your own,” she adds casually. “I haven’t checked everything this morning.”

Like it’s just part of the routine. She takes a sip of her coffee, then nods toward the ID in your hands.

“Memorize it. Name, birthday, address. It has to be automatic.” You look back down at the card.