My name is Aurora. I am thirty-six years old. I sat there in the boardroom. The air conditioner hummed low in the background. My phone was in my hand, burning a hole in my palm.

The investor, a man named Robert who had flown in from New York, was talking about scalability and market share. I nodded. I kept my face calm. I had practiced this face in the mirror for years. It was my business face. It meant nothing could hurt me. But under the table, my thumb hovered over the screen.

I unlocked my phone again. I had to look. I knew it was poison, but I had to drink it.

I opened Instagram. The picture loaded instantly. It wasn’t just one picture. It was a carousel. My mother had posted ten photos—ten proofs of her theft.

In the first photo, she was sitting on my white linen outdoor sofa. I bought that sofa six months ago. I had it imported from Italy. I remembered telling my mother on the phone:

“I finally furnished the deck. It’s white and delicate, so no red wine.”

In the photo, she was holding a glass of red wine. She was resting her feet, wearing dirty sandals, right on the white cushion. She was smiling that wide, fake smile she used for church and social media.

I swiped left.