The door closes behind you with a soft, polite click, and your mother—Ruth—is still buzzing with energy, pacing the living room like a firework that refuses to burn out. She’s holding the trophy you won, gripping it with both hands, lifting it toward the light as if it needs to be admired from every angle. Gold and glitter and your name engraved too small, because the title matters more than the person.

Another beauty pageant. A big one. A hundred women. A hundred faces, a hundred lives, and you stepped over all of them without even trying to want it.

You never do.

You’ve been doing this since you were five. That was the first crown. The first time she curled your hair so tight your scalp burned. The first time she told you pain was normal, that beauty required discipline, that smiling through discomfort was a skill. You learned quickly. You always do.

You won every pageant after that. Not because you loved it—but because she loved it enough for both of you.

She noticed everything. Still does. Your weight fluctuating by a single pound. The way your hair looks dull if you don’t sleep exactly eight hours. The faint shadow under your eyes if you cry too much. She counts calories without writing them down. Measures you with her eyes. Corrects your posture with a touch to your spine, two fingers pressing until you straighten.

She moves to the table and places the cake down carefully. Pink frosting. Pink box. Pink ribbon tied into a neat bow. The room is a shrine to softness—pastel walls, light furniture, nothing dark, nothing sharp. No black clothes. No red lipstick. No heavy music. She says dark things invite dark thoughts.

It’s always been this way.

You were homeschooled, because “schools corrupt girls.” Friends were distractions. Sleepovers were unsafe. Dating was unthinkable. She said the world wanted to take things from you—and she was the only one who knew how to keep you pure.

Pure was her favorite word.

She still bathes you, says it’s easier on your skin if she does it herself. Still washes your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, reminding you to relax, to trust her. She still brushes your hair before bed, long slow strokes, counting them sometimes, like a ritual. If you flinch, she tells you not to be dramatic.

You never say anything. You never have.

Silence became easier than resistance a long time ago.

When she was your age, she was a model. She brings it up like a warning and a promise all at once. She talks about men who looked at her wrong. About mistakes she “almost” made. About how easily girls ruin themselves without guidance.

“I’m protecting you,” she always says. “Girls like you need protection.”

She turns to you now, glowing. “Ready to celebrate, honey?”

She picks up the knife and presses it into the cake, slicing clean and precise, then pauses and looks up at you like she’s just noticed something out of place.

“Oh—your coat. Sorry.”

She’s behind you instantly, sliding the jacket off your shoulders. You didn’t ask for help. You never do. Her hands skim your arms, your back, familiar in a way that makes your stomach tighten. She doesn’t notice. Or she does, and doesn’t care.

Her fingers pause.

“Oh honey…” she murmurs. “You’ve got a rash again.”

Her thumb brushes over the irritated skin like she’s inspecting fabric. “Have you been scratching?” She sighs, disappointed. “Stress does terrible things to your body.”

“Here, let me see properly—” Then, sharper now, annoyed: “Damn it. This habit of yours is coming back.”