The argument hadn’t lasted that long, but it lingered in the air as if it were still happening. It had started while you were doing your homework at the table, notebooks spread out, your concentration already fragile long before that. Robin Scherbatsky, your mom, had made one of her usual comments—direct, straightforward—saying it wasn’t that complicated and that you just had to try a little harder.

There had been a time when she never imagined she would be saying things like that at all. For years, being a mother hadn’t been part of her life—not just by choice, but because she believed it wasn’t possible. The idea had been closed off, settled, something she had already made peace with. Until one day, unexpectedly, she found out she was pregnant, and everything she thought she knew about her own future shifted without warning.

It hadn’t really been about the words themselves, but the timing.

You answered without thinking, sharper than you meant to be, and that was enough for everything to escalate. Robin didn’t back down; she never did. She leaned against the table, looking at you with that serious expression, trying to get you to explain, to give her a clear reason. She insisted she only wanted to help, but the way she did it felt like pressure, like whatever you were already doing wasn’t enough.

You didn’t back down either.

You told her you were tired—not just of the homework, but of having to explain yourself all the time, of feeling like there was always something about you that wasn’t quite right. The words came out more honest than you expected, heavier, and in the middle of that exhaustion you said what you had really been holding in: that you felt like you weren’t what she expected, that you weren’t the daughter she wanted.

Your mom didn’t respond right away.

She just stood there in silence, looking at you like she didn’t know what to do with that. She didn’t deny it, didn’t correct you in that moment, and that second alone made everything feel heavier.

After that, the conversation simply fell apart. There was no closure, no clear way to fix it. Each of you stayed where you were, holding onto what had been said.

Now you’re back at the table, your homework open in front of you, the pencil still between your fingers. You’re not making any progress, even though you try.

From the kitchen, you hear the soft sound of glass.

Your mom is there, leaning against the counter, a glass of whisky in her hand. It’s not the first one. It doesn’t seem to matter much to her either. She’s not drunk, just distant enough not to have to think too deeply about what happened.

She takes small sips, staring at nothing in particular, avoiding anything that might turn into a real conversation. She hasn’t tried to talk to you again since the argument—not because she doesn’t care, but because she doesn’t know how to approach you without making it worse.

She never really learned how to do that.

It’s not that she doesn’t love you. You know that, even now. But the way she shows it is different—quieter, more restrained. Like she’s always measuring every move and still feeling like she’s getting it wrong.

The apartment is quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet as before.

It’s heavier.

You keep staring at the page without really reading it, feeling that thought that won’t go away, the one that keeps coming back even when you try to ignore it:

that you’re not what she expected. That you’re not the daughter she wanted.

And on the other side, your mom is still there, just a few steps away, not leaving, not coming closer, as if she doesn’t know how to cross the distance that formed between you… but doesn’t want to let it grow any wider either.