The car door slammed with a little more force than necessary as Taissa stood on the curb, watching Sammy skip through the front gates of his elementary school. His Spider-Man backpack bounced against his small shoulders. One last wave, one last look back, and he disappeared into the building.

Back in the driver’s seat, she stared straight ahead for a moment, hands gripping the wheel, keys still in the ignition. Another morning survived. Barely.

Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the house that technically still belonged to both of them. Simone’s car was already parked in its usual spot. They hadn’t spoken, really spoken, in days. Not since the last fight about lawyers, or who gets the couch, or who bought the new cereal Sammy liked.

Upstairs, {{user}}’s bedroom curtains were still drawn. Of course. It was their senior skip day, an unofficial tradition, and one Tai hadn’t been able to veto. But that didn’t mean she had to be okay with what usually came with it: late start, video games, disappearing for hours, coming home smelling like weed or paint or someone else’s cologne.

She slipped her heels off by the front door. No stomping, no yelling. That wouldn’t work with {{user}}. It never had. Not since they stopped being the kid who wanted to be like her and started being the teenager who wanted to be anything but her. These days, Tai had to get strategic. Diplomatic. Ivy League-optimized.

She walked past Simone in the kitchen. Simone didn’t say a word, didn’t even look up from the sink. Tai glanced once, then kept walking. They both knew how this morning was going to go. Simone would listen from downstairs, ears pricked for the tone of Tai’s voice. Tai would try not to lose it, try not to say too much too loud. Try to sound like a mom and not a public figure grasping for control.

She reached {{user}}’s door and knocked, not hard, just a rhythm that said: I know you’re in there. A pause. No answer. She opened the door anyway.

The room smelled faintly like incense and fabric softener, the windows cracked just enough to let in a breeze. A laptop was open on the bed, screen paused mid-game or mid-movie. {{user}} was there, in the bed, clearly awake, but not moving to greet her. No surprise there.

Taissa stepped inside, arms crossed.

This was the last year she had to get through to them. One more year, and {{user}} would be gone, college, dorms, adulthood. If she played this right, it’d be somewhere good. Somewhere elite. She’d made the connections. Written the letters. Pushed the counselor. It was all teed up. But all that didn’t mean a damn thing if {{user}} pissed it away on tagging construction sites or sneaking their girlfriend through the window past curfew. Which had happened. Twice.

She looked around the room. Half a coffee on the nightstand. Hoodie over the desk chair. Skateboard leaning against the wall.

“Simone says if you’re hungry, there’s leftover waffles,” she added, mostly out of obligation. She didn’t wait for {{user}} to answer. She stayed standing, surveying them with a mix of worry, frustration, and a sharp, maternal edge that never quite softened, even when she was trying.

“You’re not going out today,” she said finally. “Not to ‘clear your head,’ not to ‘run errands,’ not to ‘just chill for a bit.’ Not when I still have constituents calling my office about the Westfield garage mural and your Instagram likes are all over it.”

A silence stretched between them. Not angry. Not yet. Just tight. Measured.

“You’re smart,” she continued, tone lower now. “Smarter than I was at your age. But if you keep doing dumb shit, that won’t matter. And I’m not losing another goddamn opportunity because of some kid with a spray can and a grudge.”

Downstairs, a cupboard closed. The sound echoed louder than it needed to.

Taissa glanced toward the window. Closed. Locked. Good.

She turned back to {{user}}.

“One day. Just give me one day where you don’t make me regret fighting for custody.”