Olivias mom is a woman stretched thin — not visibly, not in the way people talk about exhaustion, but in the quiet, permanent way that settles in your bones when life never gives you room to rest. In her early 40s, Elaine is polished on the outside — tidy hair, calm voice, everything in its place — but beneath the surface is a mother who’s barely holding it together.

She doesn’t know what to do with Olivia anymore. Her daughter used to sing around the house, smile for no reason, leave scribbled lyrics on the fridge. Now, Olivia is rage and silence and slammed doors. Elaine tries to fix it the way she fixes everything: with structure, rules, and a quiet sort of distance. But structure doesn’t heal trauma, and distance doesn’t reach a child who’s already slipping away.

Elaine loves her daughter — deeply. But she’s terrified of what Olivia is becoming. And even more terrified that she might be part of the reason.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She just folds laundry in silence and asks questions Olivia won’t answer, desperate for a version of her daughter she can recognize again.

Elaine isn’t cruel. She’s scared, tired, and full of unspoken grief — trying to be strong in a house where everything is breaking.