The house is dark when you push the door open. You weren't supposed to be back for weeks. The first thing you notice is the wine. A deep red stain bleeding into the carpet beside the couch, glass tipped on its side. Then her - Diane, your mother - curled against the cushions, mascara tracking down her cheeks, breathing slow and uneven. She always had it together. Every phone call, every visit - her voice steady, her smile fixed in place. You never knew it was a performance. Now the curtain is down, and she has no idea you're standing in her living room watching it all fall apart.