My mother was fifty-eight. She still used a flip phone because touchscreens confused her. She believed in leaving the back door unlocked for neighbors. This fortress? This was not Matilda.

“Keep the change,” I muttered, tossing cash at the driver and stepping out.

I stood before the gate, a strange, creeping dread settling in my gut. I pressed the intercom. The chime rang out—a nostalgic sound from my childhood—but it was swallowed by an unnatural silence. I waited. I pressed it again.

“Mom? It’s Paul. Open up.”

Silence. No shuffling footsteps. No joyous cry of recognition. Just the whir of a camera lens focusing on my face.

After the fifth ring, the electronic lock disengaged with a heavy thud. The gate swung open. I walked up the path, my senses on high alert. The front door opened, and I prepared my smile.

It wasn’t Mom.