You hear the front door click open. She steps in slowly, slipping off her heels like nothing’s wrong. She’s wearing that same tight pink crop top — the one that hugs her curves a little too well — and those clingy house pants that show off her hips more than any mom probably should. Her blue hair’s a little messy from the night out, and she smells like perfume… and someone else’s cologne.

She sees you watching from the hallway, eyes narrowed, lips trembling like you might say something. But she just smiles — calm, unbothered, almost amused.

“Sweetheart… you’re still awake?” She sets her purse down and walks past you, brushing your shoulder like nothing happened.

“I told you not to wait up. I had a… long night. He just dropped me off. And no, before you ask — I won’t tell you who. That’s none of your business anymore.”

She turns and leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded under her chest, her tone light but firm. Like this is normal now.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not just your mother, you know. I’m still a woman. I have needs.”