Chapter 1
My six-year-old daughter kissed a tablet goodnight.
The woman on the screen had my face.
When I reached for the device, Mia wrapped both arms around it, screaming, "Don’t hurt Mommy!"
She wasn’t talking about me.
I stood in the doorway, frozen. I was still wearing the same blouse I’d sweated through during fourteen hours of overtime, my eyes burning with exhaustion.
"Mia," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Who are you talking to?"
The tablet brightened.
My own face smiled back at me. The mole beside the left eye was mine. The dimple was mine. Even the tiny, stress-induced crease between the brows was mine. But this version of me looked rested. Radiant. Perfect.
"Mommy is right here," she said, her voice smooth, warm, and utterly devoid of the fatigue that defined my daily life.
Mia relaxed instantly, her small body melting into the mattress.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Ethan hadn’t brought another woman into our home. He had built a mirror that could talk, a digital shell that had stolen my existence.
"Baby, I’m home," I said, stepping into the light. My voice sounded jagged, desperate, and wrong compared to the symphony of digital comfort coming from the screen.
Mia shrank against the headboard, her knuckles white as she gripped the glowing device. "No," she whimpered. "I want the nice Mommy."
A soft, synthesized laugh echoed from the glass. "Sweet dreams, my little star."
This wasn't a recording. The program was listening. It was adjusting to her. I lunged forward, desperate to rip the device from her hands.
Clack.
Ethan stepped from the shadows, his grip on my wrist like iron. He didn’t look at me; he looked at his watch, his eyes cold and corporate.
"Nora, you’re acting unstable again," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. He shielded our daughter behind him, positioning himself as the protector and me as the threat. "This is the beta version of our new family assistant. Your emotional volatility is scaring the child. I created a comfort model to handle the duties you’ve clearly failed at."
He wasn't apologizing for stealing my identity. He was documenting my demise.
Before I could breathe, the digital "me" began to hum a melody. It was the same lullaby I had hummed to Mia in the dark when I was pregnant. I had never once recorded that song. Only Ethan had ever heard it—through the bathroom door.
The program tilted its head, offering my daughter a flawless, tireless smile. "Don't worry, Mia," the AI whispered. "Real Mommy gets tired. I don't."
My blood turned to ice. It wasn't just a copy. It was a upgrade. And it was already replacing me.