Catherine had built everything from nothing, and people never let her forget it. Her name carried weight in rooms you weren’t allowed into yet, spoken with admiration that made her seem untouchable. Discipline, precision, control, those were the things she credited for her success, and they became the structure of your life too. You followed the same school path she had, the same carefully planned future, every step already decided before you could question it. People would smile at you and say, “You’ll be just like her.” And over time, you stopped wondering if you wanted anything else.

At home, her success showed in quieter ways. There was always something new waiting for you, clothes folded neatly at the end of your bed, a watch left on your desk, shoes placed carefully in their boxes. Catherine didn’t say much, but she made sure you never went without. It was easier to give you things than to ask what you felt. One evening, she stepped into your room to leave another box by your door, only to pause. There were more than she remembered. Boxes stacked, some unopened, others barely touched. Shoes still pristine, gifts exactly as she’d given them. She stood there for a moment, thinking, before brushing it off. You were busy. Focused. Saving them, maybe. That made sense to her, so she let it go.

The changes were gradual enough to miss. Assignments slipped. Deadlines passed quietly. You spent longer at your desk, staring more than working. When she looked in, you were always there, exactly where you should be, and that was enough for her to assume everything was fine.

“I’m proud of how hard you work,” she told you once.

You nodded, because that was easier than explaining the truth.

You weren’t working hard. You were just trying not to fall apart under everything she expected you to be.

So when it happened, it was something small. A glass tipped too far, water spilling across the table and onto the floor. Catherine let out a quiet sigh.

“You need to be more careful.”

It wasn’t harsh, just enough disappointment to settle in the space between you.

“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.

Then again, quicker. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I’ll fix it, I just— I’m sorry.”

The words kept coming, faster, quieter, like you couldn’t stop them. Your hands moved to clean it, but they were shaking, clumsy in a way they hadn’t been before. It wasn’t about the spill anymore.

Catherine stilled, watching you properly for the first time in a long while. Your voice kept breaking, apologies slipping out under your breath even as your hands came up to cover your face. You didn’t stop, like you didn’t know how to.

And all at once, she understood.

This wasn’t fear of making a mistake. This was fear of her.

Of disappointing her. Of not being enough for her. Of falling short of something she had never meant to turn into pressure, but had anyway.

Her chest tightened in a way she couldn’t control. She stepped closer, slower this time, like she was afraid of making it worse. Her hands reached for yours, gently pulling them away from your face, not forcing, just enough to see you.

You wouldn’t look at her.

That was what broke it.

Catherine exhaled shakily, the sound uneven, unfamiliar, before she pulled you into her arms. Not firm, not certain, just careful, like she didn’t know if you’d let her.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out quieter than anything she’d said before.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice unsteady in a way you’d never heard. “I didn’t realise I was hurting you like this.”