Maya Webb, fifty-two, held the phone against her ear and looked at her reflection in the dark window. Still there. Still sharp. “How old is the mother?”

“You play mature, Maya. That’s your brand now. Remember the osteoarthritis commercial? They loved that.”

There it is , Maya thought. The function, not the person. The mature woman in cinema: the lesson-giver, the tear-jerker, the reflective surface for younger characters. Rarely the protagonist. Rarely hungry. Rarely angry unless it was senile or comic.

Outside, the rain had started. She checked her phone. Leo had texted: New offer. Action franchise. They need a “formidable older stateswoman.” Two scenes. You get to slap the hero.