My mother’s habits had not appeared suddenly in adulthood. They had been the atmosphere of our house for as long as I could remember. Even as children, Madison and I understood that events did not simply occur in our family; they were interpreted downward from my mother first. A birthday, a report card, a friendship, a haircut, a boyfriend, an argument, a holiday dinner—everything arrived raw and left her hands labeled. Madison, because she cried attractively and recovered quickly, was often interpreted as sensitive, sweet, deserving of protection. I, because I asked why and because I could not always make my face collaborate with diplomacy, was interpreted as difficult, sharp, ungrateful, intense. That language became infrastructure over time. Once a family starts describing one daughter as soft and another as severe, it stops needing proof. Every later event is bent to fit the original outline. If Madison forgot something, she was overwhelmed. If I forgot something, I was careless. If Madison wanted more, she needed reassurance. If I wanted anything at all, I was selfish. By adulthood the categories had become so rehearsed that even people outside the family accepted them on first introduction. I watched it happen over and over. My mother would tell some charming little story at a luncheon or committee meeting—Madison the angelic bride-to-be, Paige the impossible career woman—and the room would laugh lightly, not knowing they were being invited into a structure rather than a joke. That was how narratives calcify. Not through one large lie, but through a thousand convenient interpretations repeated at table settings with good linens.