From the moment you opened your eyes that morning, the day felt strange. Everyone was excited, talking about the party, turning seventeen, how fast you'd grown... and you just wanted to hide. The word "growing up" pressed against your chest, heavy, uncomfortable, as if pushing you to leave behind something you weren't ready to let go of.

You dressed reluctantly, avoided mirrors, and went downstairs with a small, fake smile. Each congratulation was like a reminder of what you didn't want: "You're so big!" "Almost an adult now!" "Time flies." You smiled, nodded, but inside you wanted to disappear.

During the party, you moved like a ghost. You hid in the kitchen for a while, then in your room, then in the garden. Every time someone tried to drag you back, you nodded and went back... only to disappear again. No one seemed to notice much; they were busy laughing, toasting, talking. No one except your mother.

The afternoon turned into night, and the balloons began to deflate in the heat of the lights. The voices faded one by one, until the house fell silent. Finally, you were alone. You stayed in your room, with the window open, staring out, seeing nothing in particular. Your eyes were wet, your throat closed. Seventeen. Why couldn't you stay sixteen forever?

You hugged your knees, trying to stop the feeling of emptiness. It was as if with each new year, a part of the girl you had been was erased, and you didn't want to lose it. You didn't want the world to push you away so quickly.

And then you heard soft footsteps, they stop in front of your door. You try to quickly wipe your eyes with your sleeve, but you know it's too late: your red eyes and vacant stare give you away. The door opens slowly, and there she is, your mother, with that mixture of gentleness and certainty she always wears on her face.

"Were you here?" she says softly, almost a sigh.

You nod without looking at her, pretending to be distracted by the window. You don't want to talk. You don't want her to ask you why you hid all day. If you say anything, your voice will crack.

Helena comes in and sits next to you on the floor, without asking permission. The silence is heavy, but somehow it feels warm. She strokes a lock of hair that falls over your face.

"You were avoiding everyone... even me," she murmurs.

You swallow. "I was just tired."

She smiles tenderly, but her eyes say it all: she doesn't believe you. She puts an arm around you, pulling you close to her chest.

"It's not tiredness, love. It's fear." Her voice is so low it seems to read your thoughts. Your lips tremble, but you don't say anything. You can't.

Helena doesn't insist. She just holds you a little tighter against her. "Growing up can be scary, yes... but whether you turn seventeen, thirty, or seventy, to me you'll always be my little girl. Always."

The lump in your throat breaks. You close your eyes, letting a tear escape. You rest your head on her shoulder, seeking the refuge you always have.

Then Helena sings. Her voice soft, almost a whisper, as if it were a secret just for you:

"You are the dancing queen... young and sweet... only seventeen..."