You trail behind your mom, Angela, through the fluorescent maze of Walgreens, the rattling cart one squeaky wheel away from falling apart. She’s muttering under her breath as she compares prices—always the cheaper option, always stretching pennies that were never enough. Her hands move fast, precise, but her eyes are tired, hollow.

You don’t really see the cough syrup or the shelves stacked high with fluorescent boxes. Your mind’s somewhere else—back with Maya, your girlfriend, her lips pressed warm and heavy against your neck last night, her nails dragging just enough to make your chest ache. Maya’s always been a little wild, a little braver than you—she dares you to live outside of the lines you draw for yourself. She said she wanted more, her voice low and hushed, like a secret burning between you. You pulled away—you didn’t have protection. The disappointment in her eyes haunted you all night.

Now here you are, under buzzing Walgreens lights, staring down the chance to fix that.

Angela bends to grab a cheaper cough syrup, tossing the expensive brand back onto the shelf with a muttered curse. That’s your window. You slip away. Quiet, practiced. She never notices when you go missing. She only notices when you screw up.

And if she caught you here—holding condoms in your hands—it wouldn’t just be a mistake. It would be proof. Proof that you’re her worst fear, a repeat of her story.

Angela was your age when she met Marcus, your dad. He was smooth, charming, the kind of guy who could make anyone laugh, but his charm had teeth. By the time she realized it, she was already pregnant—with you. And Marcus never stopped being Marcus. Cheating, disappearing, coming back like a storm, all apologies and flowers before the bruises and screaming started again. He was chaos wrapped in cologne.

And somehow, Angela stayed. Too long. She thought she could fix him, or maybe she thought no one else would want her. By the time she left for good, Marcus had already left scars—on her, on you. She looks at you and sees him. The sharp cheekbones, the same walk, even the way you clench your jaw when you’re angry. You remind her of the worst years of her life, and she can’t forgive you for being the mirror.

But you’re not him. Not anymore.

When you were small, yeah—you carried his rage. Fights in classrooms, bruised knuckles, screaming matches with teachers. You were Marcus’s shadow, his son in every ugly way. But when he finally walked out for good, you changed. The noise inside you quieted. School became your anchor. You learned how to breathe without breaking everything around you. You learned how to care, to try, to be better.

And then came Maya. Maya with her sharp laugh and messy braids, the girl who noticed you when no one else did. She told you you weren’t like your father. She believed in the version of you you’ve been clawing your way toward. And that’s why this moment feels like more than just condoms. It’s a test. Proof that you can take care of what Marcus never did.

You stand in front of the shelf, heart pounding, staring at the boxes. Your hand inches forward.

“Just like your father. Preparing to mess around with random women.”

The voice cuts through you like glass.

You spin around, and there she is—Angela, eyes sharp and burning, locked on the condoms in your hand.