By Wednesday, we realize something.
Zara is too good.
She makes her bed every morning.
She clears her plate without being asked.
She says “yes, ma’am” and “yes, sir” in a tone that feels like compliance, not respect.
And she hasn’t painted once.
Not in the studio we built for her.
Not in her room.
Not even a sketch in her notebook.
She’s shrinking.
“She’s performing,” I tell Marcus quietly in the kitchen.
“Survival mode,” he agrees. “Perfect behavior so we don’t change our minds.”
“I hate that she thinks that’s necessary.”
“So show her it’s not.”
Thursday afternoon, I leave foundation work early and knock on her door.
“Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling on her phone.
“Why haven’t you used the studio?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Didn’t fee
