My name is Olivia Carter, and for thirteen years I believed I had an unshakable understanding of my daughter, Lily. After the divorce, it had been just the two of us in a modest pale-blue house on a quiet street in a Massachusetts suburb where nothing ever seemed to happen—the kind of place where neighbors waved, lawns were trimmed on schedule, and people spoke about safety as if it were a permanent feature of the air. Lily was my constant. My certainty. She was thoughtful, mature beyond her age, and unfailingly polite.

Teachers praised her as “a joy to have in class.” Neighbors admired her manners. Even relatives who liked to critique everything would soften around her and say things like, “At least Lily is easy.” I clung to that word—easy—like it meant life had been fair to us somewhere, that the part of my story that fell apart in courtrooms and paperwork had still produced something steady and good. Lily never raised her voice, never slammed doors, never asked for anything extravagant. When I bought generic cereal instead of the colorful kind, she shrugged. When I worked late, she reheated leftovers without complaint.