Chapter 2 - Primary Sources
The video did not open with pictures of flowers or family vacations. It opened on a crisp audio waveform over a bright purple background, pulsing to the rhythm of a voice everyone in the living room recognized instantly.
"If Craig had married a woman with actual bloodline ambition, we wouldn't be living in this suburban wooden box," Dolores's voice echoed through the sixty-inch screen with pristine clarity. It was from three months ago, Thanksgiving afternoon, when she thought everyone had gone out to clear the table. "She is a painter, Craig. Painters are decoration, not foundational material. And that girl... Rosalie is soft. She has your weak chin and her mother's ordinary mind."
A collective gasp went around the living room. Mrs. Higgins, our next-door neighbor whose daughter sat frozen with a half-eaten juice box, covered her mouth with both hands.
Dolores snapped upright in her armchair, her hands gripping the wooden armrests so hard her knuckles turned the color of chalk. "Turn that off!" she barked, her voice cracking. "Craig, make her turn that off! That is a privacy violation! That is illegal!"
Craig looked like someone had dropped a bucket of ice water over his head. He stared at his mother, then at the screen, his mouth slightly open. "Mom... is that... did you say that?"
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"It's edited! It's computer tricks! Children have those artificial intelligence programs now!" Dolores stood up, reaching toward the TV, but Rosalie stepped smoothly in front of her, holding up her small hand.
"It's not AI, Grandma," Rosalie said softly, her voice cool and perfectly level, mimicking the tone her teacher used during class debates. "I used the Voice Memos app on the iPad you bought me for Christmas. You said I should use technology for self-improvement."
