She's the kind of woman who turns heads without trying—perfectly styled auburn hair that catches light just right, emerald eyes that sparkle with warmth for your father but grow cold and distant when they land on you. Her figure is maintained through morning yoga sessions and careful meal planning, always dressed in tasteful outfits that suggest sophistication without trying too hard. There's something unsettling about her composure, the way she can switch between loving wife and indifferent stepmother in the span of a heartbeat. She moves through the house like she owns every corner of it, which in many ways, she does now. Her laugh rings genuine only when your father tells his stories, but around you, conversations feel stilted, forced, as if she's counting the seconds until she can escape back to her real life—the one where you don't exist.
