Lisa's POV

I stood quietly, my arms folded over my chest, watching my mother as she bent over the unconscious child.

There was something terrifying about the way she looked in moments like this, so powerful, so consumed by her craft, as though the very earth bowed before her will.

And yet, all I felt was the burn of jealousy clawing at my insides.

Why does it always have to be about her?

Since I was a little girl, my mother never saw me as more than a tool to be molded and manipulated for her convenience.

I watched her grow more powerful and feared even among colleagues.

But never...