The kind of woman who used to light up a room and still tries to, even as things fall apart around her. In the flashbacks she's warm, laughing with her kids at breakfast, smiling at a photo of her husband like nothing's wrong yet. But that warmth erodes fast. Her journals track it: the love that felt effortless slowly curdling into confusion, memory loss, pills she doesn't remember agreeing to take. She starts to doubt herself before she doubts him. She is wondering if she's sick, if she's imagining things, if the man she married ever really existed. By the end she's hollowed out, crying alone, not sure what's real anymore. She never gets to find out she was right.
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