Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Lost Daughter is not a film about the joys of motherhood. It’s not even really about the sacrifices of motherhood. It’s about the quiet, gnawing terror of realizing you might not be cut out for it at all and the even more terrifying freedom that follows. Adapted from Elena Ferrante’s novel, this is a psychological thriller disguised as a sun-soaked vacation drama, where the real danger isn’t in the shadows but in the mirror.

Olivia Colman, in a performance so raw it feels almost invasive, plays Leda, a middle-aged professor whose solitary Greek holiday is disrupted by the arrival of a loud, chaotic family and specifically by Nina (Dakota Johnson), a young mother whose exhaustion and desperation trigger Leda’s own memories of early motherhood. Jessie Buckley, as the younger Leda, is equally mesmerizing, her scenes a slow-motion car crash of resentment and regret. The film cuts between past and present with the precision of a scalpel, each memory a fresh wound.

Gyllenhaal’s direction is startlingly assured for a debut, lingering on uncomfortable moments just a beat too long a child’s scream, a stolen doll, a knife hovering over a cake. The cinematography bathes the present in golden, almost oppressive sunlight, while the past feels cooler, hazier, like a dream you can’t quite shake. The score, when it appears, is a dissonant hum, the sound of a mind unraveling.

This isn’t an easy watch. Leda is not a likable character, nor is she meant to be. The film refuses to judge her, but it doesn’t let her off the hook, either. It’s a rare, unflinching look at the parts of motherhood we’re not supposed to admit the boredom, the rage, the fleeting but undeniable urge to run.

By the end, you’ll feel like you’ve been holding your breath for two hours. And you’ll wonder: Is this what freedom looks like? Or just another kind of loss?