She didn’t realize until it was too late just how sociopathic her thirteen-year-old daughter had become. The age that seems to be, in any generation, a harbinger of doom for most parents. Isabelle mistakenly thought that she might avoid that chapter. That she had “done better” in terms of raising Sophie (who was now going by “Phie”). Then again, Isabelle had also mistakenly thought that she would avoid the chapter where she inevitably got divorced. And, try as she did to make things work with Lamar, he made it impossible for her. In large part due to his gross infidelity that, at one point, led to Isabelle finding out about his latest sexual bender when she got chlamydia. That was a “fun surprise.” And the last straw, too. She filed for divorce when Sophie was seven years old. A formative age for such an event. And Isabelle often wondered if she ought to have just “waited it out” until Sophie was eighteen. Maybe that would have been the “kinder” thing to do.

And yet, there was the opposing school of thought that insisted a child was more likely to get fucked over by growing up in an emotionally toxic environment. That was to be the environment Sophie would have been subjected to had Isabelle stayed with Lamar. Isabelle knew that to do so would have been untenable for her own emotional health and well-being. So she pulled the trigger on the marriage, so to speak. And with it, perhaps the trigger on Sophie’s emotional health and well-being. But no, the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Lamar would have always been the source of Sophie turning so…callous. Not just because half of his DNA was inside of her, but because Isabelle was left with little choice but to leave Sophie in his care for large bulks of the day. Including weekends. Such were the demands of her high-powered job as a mid-level executive for an up-and-coming haute couture brand called Frangiani. She had worked hard to get to this point in her career, and she wasn’t about to sacrifice it. Even if that meant sacrificing the notion of what it meant to be a “good” mother.

By conventional standards, that was defined as being the “primary caretaker,” the person who was always at home. Or at least at home more often than the patriarchal figure. Isabelle couldn’t play that part, and she now understood that the price of being unable to was this sociopathic daughter who seemed to have no attachment whatsoever to anything or anyone. She was made to fully understand this after Lamar decided to up and flee the state with his latest ho bag. This meant, for the first time in years, she would be spending more time than ever with Sophie. Or “Phie” as she kept insisting every time Isabelle reflexively called her by the name she was given. The name so lovingly and carefully chosen for her, but that she had renounced. Along with, ostensibly, all of her emotions. The only “feeling” she seemed to exhibit, as far as Isabelle could see, was “detachment.”

Sophie didn’t even seem that upset or affected by Lamar’s sudden departure without a word. She came face to face with his abandonment after school one day, finding that she could no longer get into the apartment. The new resident who answered the door told her that the last renter—Sophie’s father—had known about moving out since at least a month ago, when the new renter was first shown the apartment. Though it was news to Sophie, she just shrugged and asked if any of her stuff was still there. The new renter replied, “As a matter of fact, I was just about to shove all of it in garbage bags, so come on in and get it while it’s hot.” Sophie did just that, using the garbage bags in question as a means to haul all of her wares to Isabelle’s across town. She waited for hours until Isabelle got home, locked out on her doorstep. When Isabelle arrived, all Sophie said by way of explanation was, “I have to move in with you now.” Terse, unaffected. Just another “fact of life,” as far as Sophie seemed to be concerned.

Over the next few months, mother and daughter did not “get used to each other.” In fact, it appeared that living together was driving them even further apart. And the more Isabelle tried to set rules for Sophie to abide by—even the most “human decency” kind, like please flush the toilet—the more she rebelled, acted out. She would disappear for days at a time and come back looking haggard and bruised. When Isabelle tried to draw her out about anything, all Sophie would say in response was, “Since when do you care, Mother?” It was delivered chillingly enough to keep Isabelle from probing more every single time. She hated the effect it had on her, and that she was terrified of her own daughter. The spawn of Satan living under her roof, apparently. And here she thought she had sex with a mere mortal. But no, it must have been the devil himself, for what other explanation could there be for the existence of this raging bitch seething before her?

Isabelle didn’t want to feel this way about Sophie. Her daughter. The person she had “created,” “given life.” But, increasingly, it was hard to ignore the fact that the contempt was becoming mutual. No longer just one-sided on Sophie’s part. She was invoking it from Isabelle. Which is part of why, when the president of Frangiani offered Isabelle the chance to accompany her on a business trip to Milan for an entire week, Isabelle jumped at the opportunity. No hesitation in the slightest—not a single iota of concern for who might “look after” Sophie while she was away. After all, hadn’t Sophie made it clear that she could look after herself? That she didn’t need anyone? Except for a fistful of cash and for whoever gave it to her to fuck off. That was the teen girl way, wasn’t it? Or, rather, it was her teen girl’s way. Even though she knew there were plenty of other friends of hers with far more communicative and respectful daughters. Isabelle tried her best to put blinders on to that—for it convinced her even more that she had done something wrong early on in Sophie’s life to make her turn out this way. To mold her into such a goddamn cunt.

That night, when she came home, she poured herself a large glass of red wine and drank it steadily. She was infusing herself with the courage to tell “Phie” where she was going, and that it would be for an entire week. A part of her wondered if she should bother to mention it at all. Figured that there was a good chance Sophie wouldn’t even notice if she said nothing about her absence. But no, the bonds of motherly duty tugged at her insides. Even if the bonds of motherly duty weren’t strong enough to keep her from leaving.

Once the wine was finished, she dragged herself upstairs, following the sound of Sophie’s embarrassing rap music. She really wanted to remind Sophie that she was white, and, barring her “broken home,” about the furthest thing from “hood” there could be. But, of course, anything Isabelle told her about how to “be” would immediately go under the column of how not to be for Sophie. So telling her she shouldn’t listen to hardcore rap would only make her blast it all the louder.

Taking a deep breath, Isabelle knocked on the door…softly, at first. When no answer came, she began to pound on the painted white wood relentlessly. About five minutes later, Sophie finally found it within her “heart,” to open up. Staring blankly at Isabelle, she asked, “What?”

“Hi Sophie. How was your day?”

“Was whatever.”

In her mind, Isabelle said to herself, Wow. Two whole words instead of just the usual one. But to Sophie, she replied, “I just want to let you know, I’m going to be out of town on business for about a week. Are you okay to stay here on your own?”

“I’m always on my own, Mother. You know that.”

Isabelle said nothing in response.

Sophie sighed irritatedly. “I’m not going to burn down your precious investment, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You might have a few orgies, though, Isabelle wanted to retort. “I’m not worried,” she lied. “I know you can handle yourself.” Another lie.

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Just make sure you leave enough cash.”

Isabelle bristled. She knew she shouldn’t bother saying what she did next, but couldn’t resist. “You know, Soph—Phie—it’s not just money you need to get by in life. You need human connection, compassion. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Practically never.”

“I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Even if you haven’t always felt that way.”

“Yeah. Cool. So when do you leave?”

In this moment, Isabelle truly did want to break down and cry. It was clear she had lost her daughter. Maybe not just for the duration of her adolescence, but for good. Something between them was broken, and something between Sophie and what little humanity she might have had left was ruptured entirely. Rather than trying to explain this to her again, Isabelle answered, “In three days.”

“‘Kay then. I’ll see you when I see you.” So cold, so unattached.

Sophie didn’t give a single fuck. Isabelle was convinced that someone could stab her repeatedly in front of Sophie, and the latter still wouldn’t offer up any kind of reaction. She was, in effect, “null and void.” Her “personhood” had vanished, and she was now just the same series of 1s and 0s that she stared at all day long.

Maybe it wasn’t Isabelle’s fault, she reasoned as, a few days later, she looked out the window of her plane, about to descend into Milan. Maybe it was just the fault of “the times.” Maybe Sophie’s generation was only the product of centuries upon centuries of societal sickness and fucked-up priorities. Isabelle couldn’t think about it too much now…she had to get to the hotel and prep (both mentally and aesthetically) for a meeting. Sophie would be fine. She was almost sure of it.