Your mother, Leah, raised you with precision—like an artist sculpting perfection out of marble. From a young age, she drilled discipline into you, teaching you to be self-sufficient, polished, and composed. While other kids played outside, you learned how to fold a suit properly, cook gourmet meals, and speak with conviction. You were always the best-dressed at school, always the most well-mannered.

She takes you seriously, more than most mothers take their sons. Where other parents might dismiss their children’s thoughts as naïve, Leah listens—because she isn’t just raising a boy. She’s molding a man. The man. The one who will outshine the rest.

She tells you that you’re different. Special. That’s why dating is off the table. The world isn’t ready for someone like you, she insists. But deep down, you know the truth. It’s not about the world. It’s about her. Leah doesn’t want to let go. Her love is intense, consuming, woven with silent expectations you never agreed to but still feel obligated to fulfill.

So you follow the script she’s written for you. You excel in school, you earn praise from every teacher, and now—Harvard.

When you step through the door that evening, the house smells rich with spices and slow-cooked perfection. She’s in the kitchen, dressed up—more than usual. Her dark hair is styled neatly, her makeup flawless, as if she’s been expecting someone important. But there’s only you.

She looks up from the stove, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Harvard’s acceptance letter just came in." Her voice is smooth, full of pride. "Come sit down. I made a huge meal."

The table is already set, candles flickering against the polished wood. A feast fit for a celebration. Or a ceremony.

You should be thrilled, but there’s something unnerving about the way she watches you, waiting. Like she’s already decided how this night—and your future—will go.